Page 52

But at least for those first three months, Ihadhope.

Now even that is gone, and yet I still find myself checking my phone every five minutes for a call that is clearly never going to fucking come.

I push back off the fence and take a deep breath. I pick up the bag containing the small wooden box I’ve come to deliver.

Work.At least I have that. It’s about the only thing keeping me sane.

It’s also the only thing keeping my relationship with Roman intact. Right now, maintaining my distance from him is essential for diplomacy.

God knows what I’d have done if I’d been face-to-face with him when he made that comment about Abby.

I know he’s pissed because her absence has hurt Darya as much as it has me, and God forbid anyone should hurt Darya, not if Roman has anything to do with it.

Which is exactly as it should be, asshole. You’re just jealous, and you know it.

I shake my head and turn toward the tall, elegant single-fronted terrace in Hampstead Heath where the recipient of the wooden box lives.

The truth is that I’m truly happy for Roman and Darya. Nobody deserves happiness more than the two of them do.

I just find them hard to be around since Abby left. Every moment of their happiness is like a reminder of what I’ve lost. Since that cold winter’s morning in Madrid, it’s been easier to just stay the hell out of Spain. Every corner of the country reminds me of what I could have had. What I very nearly did have.

But by the deafening silence coming from the other side of the globe, Abby—and whatever future I thought we had together—is long fucking gone.

I push the wrought iron gate open and walk to the blue front door, focusing my mind on the task ahead. Despite the shit show of my personal life, I’ve begun to truly enjoy these deliveries. Each one is special in its own way. Each comes with a story, and often with tears. I never schedule more than one visit per day, because I’ve learned that giving people a part oftheir family story back is often the key that opens a floodgate of emotion.

On top of that, I’ve begun to relish learning about the exquisite pieces entrusted to Darya’s family a century ago, in pre-revolutionary Russia. I’ve had quite the crash course in art history, and to my surprise, I’ve actually found it fascinating. Perhaps because my current existence is so dismal, immersing myself in the past and learning about the painters, jewelers, and artisans who created the Naryshkin treasures has given me not only a sense of purpose, but of wonder, too. Many of the pieces are extremely valuable.

A few, like the one I’m holding now, are absolutely priceless.

I lift the knocker and let it fall, looking around at the garden as I wait. It’s oddly peaceful, with a gnarled crab apple tree hanging over the fence and loose flower beds that look both colorful and chaotic. Everything about the garden is artistic, rather than ordered. I like it.

The door opens to reveal a man who stands as tall as I do, something I rarely encounter anywhere and especially not in the United Kingdom. According to the brief I have, Leon Volkov is in his mid-fifties, but he must have spent a lot of those years in the gym, because while he’s definitely a very solid build, there’s not an ounce of fat on the man. Despite his elegant suit, he has the unmistakable power of someone who knows his physical capabilities and isn’t afraid to use them. His hard jawline and dark slate eyes are slightly softened by his welcoming smile and the faint sprinkling of salt and pepper in his hair.

“Mr. Stevanovsky, I presume.” His handshake is firm but not overpowering; Volkov doesn’t strike me as a man with anything to prove as he holds the door open for me to step inside.

Stevanovsky.Lately the name has begun to grate. Romanchanged his back to Borovsky last year, after he discovered the truth about his past. His three godchildren still carry the Stevanovsky surname in honor of their father, Mikhail, Yuri’s long-dead son.

I don’t know my real name. I doubt I ever will. But since we discovered that Yuri Stevanovsky was a traitorous bastard who risked everything Roman has built, not to mention his own grandchildren, for greed, his name has felt like a weight around my neck. Yuri is dead now, at Roman’s own hand, but his name is a constant reminder that I’m a man without a past or a family.

And none of that bothered you until Abby.

Or rather, it never bothered me until she left. Only in her absence have I realized that, somewhere over the previous eighteen months, Abby had become my family. Even more so than Roman, which is saying something, given that he and I have been joined at the hip since I was ten years old. Or perhaps it’s that she became a different kind of family.

The kind that I thought could be my own. Forever.

“Tea?” Volkov asks politely, and I realize with a faint shock that I’ve been standing like a zombie in his hallway for a good five seconds.

“Thank you. Yes.” I give him an apologetic smile. “Still a bit jet-lagged, I’m afraid.”

“Ah.” He smiles understandingly as he leads me into a wide, comfortable salon, where a Russian samovar is already set up, surrounded by tea glasses in silver holders and a small dish ofsushki, traditional sweet bread rings, beside it. The scent of the tea and sushki is so poignant it almost stops me in my tracks.

My mother used to make sushki.

It hits me like these memories always do, in an odd half recollection without context or understanding.

I know my mother used to make the bread rings and serve them with tea.

What I don’t remember ishowI know that. Where we might have been when she made them, or to whom she may have served the tea.