Page 22

Dimitry

London, England

Present Day

“ L ondon,” Roman says flatly down the phone line. “What the fuck are you doing in London, Dimitry?”

“I have a Naryshkin piece to deliver here.” I hold the top of the wrought iron fence that lines the park and take a mouthful of pallid English coffee, wishing I had vodka instead. “It’s taken quite some time to track down the owner.”

“Any plans to come to Spain while you’re on this side of the pond?” His tone is carefully neutral, but I know his moods better than my own. I can almost see his clenched fists on the other end of the phone.

“Not this time, brother, no. Sorry.”

I’m not sorry, though. And Roman knows it, which is probably why his next words aren’t quite so neutral.

“I’ll level with you: I’m drowning over here. I need you back, Dimitry, at least for a while. ”

“You asked me to oversee the return of the Naryshkin pieces,” I say evenly. “I’m doing that. And I plan to keep doing that, for as long as it takes.”

“Those pieces have been sitting in a vault for decades.” He sounds characteristically impatient. “This bullshit is hardly urgent fucking business, is it?”

It’s the bullshit you put me in charge of, asshole.

“And while we’re on the topic, I don’t remember saying you needed to base yourself in fucking Miami to get it done.” Roman is clearly past diplomacy. “Aren’t most of the pieces being delivered to Europe anyway?”

Yes. But thankfully, so far, not to Spain. Which is good, because it’s the one place I can’t face going anywhere near.

I kick the base of the iron fence hard enough to hurt my foot. Not nearly as much as I want to hurt something. Anything.

Right now, preferably Roman’s face.

“I know I’ve been away a long time.” I say it in as calm a tone as I can muster. “I’m sorry about that.”

The words taste like sawdust in my mouth. They’re also the best I can manage right now.

“Enough with the fucking sorry . Just come home.” Roman pauses. “Is this still about Abby?”

I don’t have an answer for that, so I don’t try to give one.

“Christ, Dimitry. It’s been six months.” His frustration is palpable.

“It’s bad enough she left you, but I’ll never understand how she could do this to Darya.

Aleksander is three months old, and we still haven’t had a christening because she won’t give up the idea of her being godmother. If I ever get my hands on that girl—”

“Shut up, Roman.”

Miraculously, he does.

I rub a hand across my head. “Look.” I do my best to soften the terse hostility that seems to color every interaction I have with Roman lately. “I’m running late for this delivery. I’ll call you tomorrow. Good enough?”

“Good enough.” His voice is a lot quieter. “I—That was out of line, brother. Between Mercura and the baby, I haven’t had a lot of sleep lately. Sorry.”

“Forget it.” Normally I’d never be able to turn down the chance to make the most of a Roman Borovsky apology. But lately, all the things that used to amuse me just don’t.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” I end the call before he can answer, another change in our relationship. There was a time, not so long ago, when I wouldn’t have dreamed of ending a call before Roman cut me off.

But those days are gone. And I’m not sure they’re ever going to come back.

The London street briefly disappears, replaced by a Madrid restaurant and Abby staring accusingly at me across the table. “You might be happy to spend the rest of your life taking orders from Roman Borovsky, Dimitry, but I never signed up for that.”

Christ.

The memory hits me like a fist in the stomach, temporarily knocking the wind from me. I grip the fence spikes, grateful for the solid, unyielding iron against my hand.

Am I ever going to stop hearing her voice? Seeing her face?

It’s been six months to the goddamn day, and Abby’s eyes still follow me wherever I go, even into sleep.

Especially into sleep.

I thought it would be better by now. After the first, crippling blow of her departure, I clung to hope. At the time, I thought that was torture.

But at least for those first three months, I had hope.

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 of their 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. Roman changed 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 of sushki , 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 is how I know that. Where we might have been when she made them, or to whom she may have served the tea.