Champagne Venom (Orlov Bratva, #1)(130)

His face is studiously expressionless for a moment, and I wonder if I’ve gone too far. Shit, I think, I’m not even a mother yet and I’m already screwing up parenting.

But then his lips spread in a soft, slow smile, and he nods gently, and I feel like I did the right thing after all.

“Hey, guys.” Cyrille is walking up the cobbled pathway that winds through the gardens. “How’s it going?”

Ilya beams at his mom. “Good! We’re gonna go swimming.”

“Great idea,” Cyrille approves. “But before you do, can you go get your homework done?”

“I already finished my homework.”

Cyrill looks surprised and turns to me, eyebrows raised in a silent fact check. I chuckle and nod. “He did indeed. I made sure of it.”

“Oh,” Cyrille says, looking uneasy. “Well, then, go clean your room.”

“Magda already cleaned it while I was in school.”

“Fine then,” Cyrille snaps. “Go play some video games.”

“Really?” Ilya asks, jumping to his feet.

She waves him towards the house. “Yeah. You get an extra hour today. Go on.”

Ilya abandons his glass of lemonade and speeds off into the house. When he’s gone, I turn to Cyrille with raised eyebrows. “Why did you just get rid of your son?”

Now that Ilya isn’t here, the gnawing uncertainty in Cyrille’s expression is obvious. “Misha is in the sitting room. He wants to see you.”

I jerk upright and nearly slosh lemonade all down the front of my baggy overalls.

It’s been almost a week since his late night drop-in. I knew he’d visit again at some point—I’ve dreamed about it; prepared for it mentally, physically, emotionally—but I’m still shocked. My heart pounds hard against my chest.

Annoyingly, it’s not all anxiety. It’s happiness, too.

Because I want to see him. Just as much as I want to avoid him. More contradictions that are slowly shredding me to pieces.

“For the record, it looks like he just wants to talk,” Cyrille reassures me.

“I can’t imagine he has anything nice to say.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. He looked pretty contrite.”

I snort. “I’m not sure Misha’s face knows how to do contrite.”

Cyrille smiles. “You’ll have to talk to him eventually, hon.”

I nod, making a decision as I exhale slowly. “I know. But not today.”

She seems a little disappointed, but she doesn’t try to convince me to change my mind. “Okay. It’s whatever you want, and you know of course that you’re safe here for as long as you choose. I’ll go tell him. I just… Are you sure?”

I can practically feel Misha’s presence like a tractor beam, dragging me towards the house against my will. I want to see his face. I want to smell him and remember when things were good.

But I can’t. Not yet.

“Yeah. I’m sure.”





99

MISHA

“Uncle Misha?”

I turn around to find Ilya standing in the doorway of the sitting room. His shock of dark hair flops over his forehead, sweaty and unruly, and his eyes are bright and intelligent. He looks exactly like his father did when Maksim was this age. It feels like gazing into the past.

“You’ve grown a foot since I last saw you,” I remark, waving him over. “How did I miss that?”

Ilya’s face clouds over. He doesn’t move from his spot. “Because you haven’t been around.”

That’s a gut punch. One that I should have expected.

He shifts in the light and I see that there’s a stubborn set to his jaw. He’s angry with me. And he has every right to be.

I beckon him over to me again. He hesitates for a moment before he walks over, chin held high and proud.

“I know I’ve been a lousy uncle,” I admit.

He looks at me like this might be a trap. Like he’ll be in trouble if he agrees.

“The thing is, I’m not as brave as your father. I can’t face things head on the way he could.”

Ilya shakes his head. “Papa always told me that you were the brave one.”

Every muscle in my body tightens. Another gut punch. This one was less expected. “He did?”

Ilya nods. “He told me that he was the thoughtful one, you were the brave one, and Aunt Niki was the fearless one.”

Maksim never said any of this to me. Now, all I can think is: what other thoughts did he keep hidden?

“My mom says you don’t come over anymore because you’re busy. Aunt Niki says it’s because you’re sad.”

I cringe. Leave it to Nikita to get to the heart of the matter.

“What does Grandma say?” I ask.

He shrugs. “She doesn’t say anything at all.”

My mother is the shining example of not saying anything you can’t take back. She held her tongue the entire time she was married to my dad. It’s not surprising she’s managed to hold it while I’ve shut them out for the last year.

“I’m going to do better from now on, Ilya. I’m going to be here more often. You won’t be able to grow a centimeter without me noticing. How does that sound?”