Page 6

RUTHIE

I don’t realize that I am still staring at my phone until Luka pulls at my arm. I blink, disoriented, and wonder what just happened. Vadka feels like a connection to my sister that no one else has. Not really.

Mom remembers the Mariah of my childhood—the one with braids and scraped knees, who danced barefoot in the yard—but she barely remembers me, not anymore. So a visit to her always leaves me hollower than before. More raw. More exposed. It makes everything more painful.

My only friends, other than Zoya, are a couple of locals, the ones who’ve stuck around, and a couple of bar regulars who can still look me in the eye.

Even they talk to me now like I’m a walking time bomb, ticking slow, dangerous.

That’s nothing new. People have done that before.

But not them. Not the ones who used to treat me like I was made of iron.

Now I feel fragile, like I’m made of thin glass. And I hate it. God, I hate it so much.

But Vadka talks about Mariah like she’s still here. And a part of me—one I don’t say out loud—believes maybe she is.

One month after she died, Matvei’s wife, Anissa, came to the bar. She didn’t say much. Just ordered a drink and pushed a pretty purple crystal into my palm. “This is amethyst,” she said gently, like her words might bruise. “It’s for healing. Some believe it connects us to our loved ones.”

I thanked her as politely as I could manage and slid the drink across the bar. Matvei calls her his little witch. She’s always been into that stuff—tarot cards, crystals, essential oils, all of it. I never paid much attention to it before. Just smiled and nodded.

I tossed the rock into the back of the change drawer because I didn’t want to look at it.

But somehow, putting it there created the exact opposite effect.

Now I have to look at it every time I open the drawer to give a customer change.

Doesn’t happen often, not these days. No one pays with cash anymore.

But still. A couple of times a night is maybe too often.

I should move that. Do crystals need to be cleaned or something?

“Can I have more whipped cream, Mama?”

My heart leaps into my throat. My eyes blur with sudden, stinging tears. But he stops himself and quickly shakes his head.

“No. Not Mama. Sorry.”

Hearing him say “sorry” in that small voice—so soft, so careful—would break anyone’s heart. Mine cracks down the middle. So I crouch down in front of him, meet his eyes, and force a watery smile. “It’s fine, baby. I do look a little like her, don’t I?”

He nods, a small motion. Then he looks back down at his pancakes and doesn’t say much more.

“Here. You can have a little more whipped cream.”

“You give me more than Papa.”

Of course I do. Vadka is such a scrooge. Give him too much whipped cream, and he’ll have a tummy ache…

I roll my eyes at the thin air and turn back to the dishes, wiping at my face quickly before he sees.

“We have to go to the grocery store and buy some food. Do you want to come with Auntie?”

“Yes! I’ll be your helper,” he says, swinging his little legs with enthusiasm.

I glance at him over my shoulder and smile, even as something in my chest tugs painfully.

I know Vadka only sees Mariah when he looks at him—the same bright eyes, the same rosy cheeks, the same soft brown curls that frame his face just right.

But he looks a good bit like his daddy too.

He has his mouth, that stern little curve, the strong jaw and a cleft chin.

And even though his face is still round from childhood, I can already see it—that it’s going to sharpen one day.

Harden the same way Vadka’s did. He’s got those dark brows and that same quiet, serious expression.

I turn away. Why am I thinking that right now?

Some kids look just like their moms. Some look just like their dads. Then some, like Luka, are perfect blends of both .

My phone buzzes with a text, and my heart leaps into my throat again, stupidly hoping it’s Vadka.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I can’t help it though. These little exchanges—these short, awkward, strange texts—have been the most excitement I’ve had in months.

The most… feeling I’ve had in months. I don’t fully understand it, but somehow, our shared grief makes mine feel a little lighter.

Like I was dragging it alongside me, and he wordlessly came up beside me and lifted it with me.

When I’m by myself, or worse, in front of other people, the effort of hiding it feels impossible. But I don’t have to hide it with Vadka. And that makes it easier to carry.

“I’m starting school soon, Auntie,” Luka says, swinging his feet at the table as he downs the last of his juice.

“More juice?”

I pour him a little more and can already imagine Vadka’s stern look. The shake of his head. The quiet, parental disapproval.

He wouldn’t let him have any more. Whatever.

“Are you excited?” I ask, forcing brightness into my voice like sunlight through a crack in the wall. “We should go get you some clothes and shoes and things. A backpack too.”

He nods, face lighting up like I’ve just promised him the world. And maybe, for a little boy, I have.

He's starting preschool in the fall—something Mariah never wanted him to do. She liked being his teacher and had decided, with Vadka, that they would enroll Luka in school when he turned six years old, something quite common in these parts.

There was a waiting list though—a long one.

The kind that takes years, not months. I remember when they first put his name down.

Mr. I Plan Everything—Vadka—figured that if Luka could get in by the time he was five, he’d ease into childhood school a little more smoothly.

I know Vadka wants him to have the routine though.

"Help me put the dishes in the dishwasher," I tell him with a smile. "We're gonna do some cleaning before we head to the supermarket."

He gets up from the table and eyes his plate. “I don’t want to.”

I lift a brow at him and wonder if he would have the audacity to tell Vadka he didn’t want to.

I first met Vadka when I was only fourteen years old. He was my older sister’s boyfriend, and I crushed on him at first, but then quickly squashed it. She was madly in love with him.

We all had shitty backgrounds. His dad was an abusive asshole, and my mom was almost a child herself. So he eased into our lives, and once he came, he never left.

I knew him before he was brought in, and I knew once Rafail became guardian of his siblings—and the pakhan of the Kopolov family Bratva, it was only a matter of time before Vadka would follow his best friend.

Vadka and Mariah made sure I went to school.

They were serious about it, about schedules and clean clothes and grades and parent-teacher meetings.

His dad was a member of the Night Wolves , kind of like Russia’s version of Hell’s Angels.

He took his temper out on Vadka as a punching bag.

I still remember the night Vadka said he would never raise his hand to his child, no matter what, and that he would be the dad he didn’t have.

He and Mariah agreed. They were an excellent team. They were the kind of parents I wished I could’ve had. Sometimes, it just works out that way.

I stare at my nephew and wonder. We have a whole day together. He’s being naughty now—that's going to make for a very long day. Is he trying to get attention, or what? I don’t know anything about raising kids. So I tilt my head to the side and give him a look.

"You ate off that plate. I made you breakfast. The right thing to do is to put it in the dishwasher."

“No,” Luka says, crossing his arms over his chest. He still has those little dimples in his arms that remind me of him as a toddler.

“Would you tell your papa no?” I ask, and it feels weirdly reminiscent of Wait until your father gets home , so I immediately regret it—but it has the desired effect. He opens his eyes wide, then shakes his head and hangs it a little.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I would get in trouble with Papa.”

I cross my arms and muster up the sternest look I can manage. Why is it so easy for me to stand up to adults, but I’m learning a four-year-old can get the better of me ?

“Do you think you won’t get in trouble with your auntie?”

He’s right—he won’t. But maybe I can bluff?

He frowns and looks as if he’s thinking it over.

“I told you we were going shopping, and I’m not going to buy you a treat if you’re not going to behave yourself,” I explain. “Don’t you know that?”

I totally will.

He thinks this over, then picks up his plate and brings it over to me. I blow out a breath. Crisis averted.

Okay. So bribery. Bribery works.

“You help me get this laundry going, we’ll whip through this house, and I’ll let you watch a quick show before we go. Okay?”

My head hurts. Vadka was right—I didn't get much sleep last night. I didn't get home until two a.m., and then I couldn't sleep, thinking about my nephew and brother-in-law. Thinking about Mariah.

Some people let their lives come to a halt when they're grieving.

They don't eat, don't sleep, don't work.

And then some people keep on going, pretending that their lives haven't come to a screeching halt, pretending that the sun still rises, pretending that they are not carrying a boulder on their chest every minute of every day.

I guess not feeling anything would be worse than this.

I guess. I wouldn't know.

So I throw myself into cleaning the house.

That's what I've always done, and it definitely does help.

I put on some music and load the dishwasher.

I gather up all the dirty laundry and put it in the laundry room, start a wash cycle, and fold wrinkled clothes in the dryer.

I put away Luka's toys, take the recycling to the porch for Vadka, and make a note to myself to organize the pantry and refrigerator later.