I nod.
“It’s legal in eleven states, now. It’ll pass in a dozen more over the next five years. But for the moment, it’s still illegal federally. Which creates an opportunity for financing. Traditional banks won’t extend loans for cannabis-based businesses. But we can self-finance. We can use this blind spot to pursue rapid expansion and acquisitions. Take over cannabis companies in San Francisco, Sacramento, Denver, and Las Vegas. Not just in retail but in cultivation, delivery, accessories, retreats, cafes . . .”
“What if they change the law?”
“You know what American politics are like. You can buy whatever law you want. We funnel contributions to the candidates of our choice, to make sure they award us the licenses we need and to keep them voting for favorable rules and regulations.”
“Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out,” I say.
Honestly, it’s smart. We’ve got money squirreled away in plenty of Swiss and Russian banks, but it’s wise to invest in America, too. For better or worse, the American dollar still sets the standard for global currency.
I feel mildly jealous that it was Sloane and Ivan who came up with the plan, without needing my input. But Ivan’s obvious pleasure in his upcoming wedding more than makes up for it.
“We’re flying out to Nevada this week,” Ivan tells me. “Do you want to come along?”
Usually I would say yes without hesitating. Ivan and I have had more than a few memorable weekends in Las Vegas. I have no doubt that the addition of Sloane and maybe Maks and Efrem to the party would only make things wilder.
However, that would mean a week without seeing Lara.
There’s not a single thing in America better than Lara’s dark eyes and sweet smile.
“You guys go ahead,” I tell Ivan. “I’ll be the house sitter. I’ll make sure nothing falls apart in your absence.”
Ivan narrows his eyes at me. He’s suspicious, and rightfully so. I’ve never turned down a trip before. Especially when we’ve been having the most profitable year of our lives, so Ivan will probably be hiring a private jet.
“You sure?” he says.
“Yeah. I’ll come on the next one.”
He nods.
“Alright, brother. I’m gonna turn in.”
He picks up the ledger to take back upstairs with him.
As he’s about to leave, he pauses in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the whole width of the space.
“Dom,” he says, without turning around.
“Yeah?”
“Say hi to your girlfriend for me.”
“I’ll do that.”
He chuckles softly and keeps walking.
I don’t know how much he suspects, but my brother is no fool. He knows exactly why I’m staying home. He just trusts me enough not to press.
I hope I’m worthy of that trust.
14
Lara
I’ve been going to art class several times a week now.
To Nataly’s great disappointment, Dom refused her kind offer to continue posing and instead just waits for me at the cafe on the ground floor. He’s also the one paying for the classes—something I tried to protest, but in truth, we both know I can’t afford them myself.
And I absolutely don’t want to stop going. Nataly is a brilliant teacher. Plus, I’m making friends with some of the other students, including Ivanna. She lives with her grandmother in Sennaya and paints phone cases for spare cash. She made one for me with an orchid painted on the back.
After our oil painting class, she joins Dom and me for lunch at the cafe, along with Igor, who’s a student at the Institute of Technology. We all sit in the comfy couches in the back of the cafe, laughing and talking.
Igor does caricatures, so he draws each of us in turn. He makes each of us an animal: Ivanna is a little black cat, sulky and prim. Igor himself is a hound dog, long-faced and mournful. Dom is a tiger, with amber-colored eyes. And I’m a little faun, with spots in place of my freckles.
We all laugh at his drawings, which are devilishly accurate, both in flattering and unflattering ways.
I asked Igor to do his drawing of me in my sketchbook, so I could keep it. He does the same with Dom’s, so they’re side by side on opposite pages, looking at each other.
When he’s finished the drawings, Igor signs them with a flourish. But he doesn’t hand my sketchbook back. Instead he flips through it, looking at all the drawings I’ve done since I came to St. Petersburg.
“Oh look,” he says, pausing on one of the most recent sketches. “You drew Dom, too.”
“You did?” Dom says.
I try to grab the notebook away, but Dom’s much faster than me.
He looks at the portrait of his face, one I had been trying to draw from memory.
I haven’t been able to get it quite right, yet. Because Dom has such a charming, playful expression—but there’s also sadness in his face. Or seriousness. Some depth of emotion beneath the smile and the obvious good looks that’s difficult to capture.
Dom looks at the drawing for a long time.
“What do you think?” I ask him, nervously.
“More real than real life,” he says. “Like your brother’s portraits.”
My heart clenches up in my chest, like it always does when I think of Sem. I wish Dom could meet him. They’re not alike, not really—Sem so shy and gentle, Dom much more confident and outgoing. But both observant. Thoughtful. And protective of the people they love . . .
Dom flips through the other drawings again, though he’s already seen my sketches. When he comes to sketch of the tattoo, he turns the page without pausing.
“What was that one?” Igor says.
“It’s a tattoo,” I say.
Dom glances up at me, then looks away just as quickly.
In the dim light of the cafe, his eyes look darker than usual. Not quite brown, not quite hazel.
And I know. I know why he looked familiar to me when we first met.
In fact, I can’t believe I didn’t realize it immediately. It was his charm, his good looks—they disarmed me completely.
In a flash, I can feel the knife cutting through my shirt again, letting the cold air onto my bare skin.
My flesh breaks out in goosebumps. I stand up in a rush.
“I—I’ve got to get some fresh air,” I say.
Ivanna and Igor are staring at me wide-eyed, not understanding my sudden change of mood.
Dom understands it perfectly. I know he wants to say something, but I can’t even look at him.
I pick up my bag and sketchbook.
“Thanks for—I’ll see you guys,” I say.
“Lara, wait!” Dom protests.
I can’t stop. I have to get out of the cafe.
I push through the crowded tables, almost knocking over a chair, and then I’m through the door, out on the sidewalk, the sunshine warming my cold skin.
I’m still walking, hurrying down the street, trying to get a breeze in my face.
My breathing is short and ragged. It was Dom who broke into the police station. Dom who pointed a gun at me. Dom who tied me up.
It was no coincidence that he met me at the museum. He followed me. He watched me. He might have hired the thief to steal my bag, even.