I’m relieved to hear him say that. With every day that’s passed since I escaped, my old life seems more like a distant nightmare. But I can never forget that my father is alive and well, and probably even more angry than the day I left.
We pass through the thick stone walls of the monastery, Dom waving to whoever is guarding the gate.
Dom pulls the car up close to the entrance, then comes around to let me out.
I can see his brother already waiting for us in the open doorway.
As Dom leads me toward Ivan, I have to fight the impulse to turn around and race back to the car.
The brothers don’t look much alike. They’re both about equal in height and build, but Ivan’s face has little of the charm and beauty of Dom’s. His features are stern and brutal. His hair and eyes are darker, and he looks much older.
“Ivan,” Dom says, “this is Lara.”
I’m trying very hard not to let my knees shake.
“Welcome, Lara,” Ivan says. His voice is even deeper than Dom’s, and raspy. He holds out his hand.
I’m a little worried that if I take it, he might pull my arm off. But I shake his hand anyway.
Surprisingly, Ivan’s hand is warm and strong—similar to Dom’s in size and shape. The familiarity of his touch makes me relax just a little.
That lasts all of about two seconds, until an absolutely gorgeous woman appears at his shoulder. She’s tall and athletic-looking, with thick black curls and dark eyes. She looks highly intelligent, and the fact that she’s smiling at me does not at all put me at ease. Because it’s the sort of mischievous smile that makes me worried what she might be about to say or do. Like the Norse god Loki come to earth in female form.
“Why are we standing in the doorway?” she says. “Come in! You must be Lara—the reason none of us have seen Dom in a month. I knew you’d be beautiful.”
Being called beautiful by this woman is like being called wealthy by Bill Gates. I feel totally unworthy of the compliment.
“I’m really glad to meet you both,” I stammer out. “Dom’s said so many nice things about you . . .”
“Probably exaggerated.” Sloane grins. “But we’ll do our best to live up to it.”
“Aren’t you American?” I ask her. “Your Russian is so good.”
“Ha, did you hear that?” Sloane says triumphantly to Ivan.
“She’s being polite,” Ivan says.
“Being polite?” Sloane says, as if she’s never heard of it. “Maybe we should try that sometime.”
“I would love to see it,” Ivan says, smiling just a little.
We’re all walking in the opposite direction of last time, away from the dining hall and the games room. Instead, Ivan leads us into a formal dining room with a long, grand table and several moody oil paintings on the walls. One side of the room is taken up by a fireplace large enough to roast an ox.
I sit down at the dining table, expecting Ivan and Sloane to start grilling me any minute. I’m sure they’re going to want to question me, to try to trip me up, or get me to admit that I’m some sort of spy.
Instead, Sloane starts asking me about the art classes I’ve been taking, and what mediums I like to use. She’s so charming and relaxed that I start to relax, too. I can’t help it. I love talking about art.
She’s obviously been all over the world and seen all the famous masterpieces.
“I like sculptures the best,” she says. “Couldn’t you see Ivan carved in bronze or marble? He’s got just the right features to be Zeus or maybe Hades.”
I don’t tell her that I was just thinking of her as Loki myself.
Instead I say, “I’d love to see the sculptures in Italy, like the Trevi fountain. My mother said—“
I break off suddenly.
Sloane made me so comfortable that I was just about to repeat something my mother told me: that the Trevi fountain collects almost three thousand euros a day, from people throwing in coins. The money is used to buy groceries for the poor of Rome.
However, any mention of my mother would encourage awkward questions. So instead I shut my mouth with a snap.
Sloane obviously notices my sudden silence, but she pretends not to.
As a welcome distraction, Ivan and Dom carry in platters of food from the kitchen, obviously prepared by the chef. There’s raw fish seasoned with lemon juice, basil, and dill, mushroom dumplings, liver pastries, meatballs in white sauce, and a beautiful kurnik pie with braids of pastry, filled with chicken and egg. Besides that, Ivan opens several bottles of dark red wine, so dusty that they look like they were left by the original monks who occupied this place.
As we start eating, Ivan teases Dom that he’s getting out of shape since he’s been spending so much time with me.
“Look at those arms,” Ivan says. “Pitiful. I doubt you could pull the cork on this bottle.”
Dom snorts and lifts up his shirt, displaying ridiculously chiseled abs to his brother.
“I think I’m doing alright,” he says.
“It’s true, Ivan,” Sloane says. “Dom is a model now. Very famous in figure-drawing classes.”
I laugh.
“He told you about that?”
“I told her what an idiot I felt like,” Dom says. “You know, I never did get you back for volunteering me for that.”
“Well, you made her come here and meet Maks and Zima, so that’s punishment enough,” Sloane says.
I can’t believe the easy banter between Dom, Sloane, and Ivan. I know how feared and respected Ivan Petrov is in St. Petersburg. And Sloane was an assassin for god’s sake! Yet I can see the bond between them all. The love and loyalty.
Even on our best days, Sem and I could never laugh like this together. There was too much ugliness in my father’s house. Too much fear and misery.
“Are you alright?” Dom quietly says to me.
“Yes,” I tell him. “Absolutely.”
After dinner, Dom tells me, “Come on, I want to show you something.”
I follow him outside, around the east side of the monastery, toward the row of old stables.
As we draw closer, I smell the warm, earthy scent of dog. I immediately stiffen up, looking around for the guard dogs.
“I know they make you nervous,” Dom says to me. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes . . .” I say hesitantly.
Dom takes me inside the stable. I can hear the sounds of squeaking and wrestling. He unlatches the first stall door, opening it just wide enough for us to slip inside.
There, in a pile of fresh, clean hay, are six fat, fluffy puppies—running, wrestling, and rolling all over each other. Their coats range from pale gray to almost black, with their faces mostly dark and their large paws mostly light in color. Several of the puppies have white patches around their eyes, almost like panda bears. They’re so fat and puffy that I’m amazed they can even see through all that fur. Their little tails curl up over their backs.
“Ohhh . . .” I sigh.
“Here, sit,” Dom says.
I sit down on the straw and immediately two or three of the puppies start climbing into my lap and jumping out again. The others keep wrestling, trying to seize each other’s ears, or just chasing their own tails in a circle.