Page 175 of Violent Possession

I can’t stand it. I take two steps toward him but stop when I realize that maybe Alexei needs this silence.

He looks at me, and I see what’s behind the veneer: the cracks, the exhaustion. All the glamour of the criminal dynasty melted away.

“You’re back,” I say, and instantly hate myself for the obviousness.

“It’s over,” he says.

And then he walks toward me. He simply comes to me and wraps me in his arms, burying his face in the curve of my neck.

I hold him even tighter, ignoring the phantom pain on my amputated side, and everything boils down to two bodies pressed together, trying not to fall apart.

After a long moment, he pulls away a little, enough to look into my eyes. His hands are still on me, firm. His gaze passes over me and lands on the bottle of champagne.

A tiny trace of a smile, exhausted and real, touches his lips.

“Do you think,” I say, my voice still low, “we have a good reason to open that?”

Alexei looks at my face with a smile that seems genuinely worn—alive and frayed at the edges, pulling at the skin under his eyes with every line written by the hours he spent without sleep.

“I think we’ve never had a better reason.”

The weight on my chest finally dissolves. The space between us dilutes, and the apartment is no longer a hermetic box of paranoia.

Alexei crosses the carpet to the silver bucket and picks up the bottle, his hands still steady, and even exhausted he does everything with that precision of someone who learned etiquettebefore learning to walk. Every movement is millimeter-perfect: his fingers refuse to tremble even after a private civil war.

“Oh, and I bought dinner,” I say, trying not to sound like a dog wagging its tail after a beating. I gesture with my chin toward the counter crowded with containers. “Maybe I overdid it. There’s Thai food. And salmon. And some gluten-free sandwiches. And ice cream. Depending on how your night went, I thought I might need a lot of ice cream.” I hesitate, and add: “And some esfihas. And raw kibbeh. I didn’t know if your family meeting menu included cannibalism or just hemlock, so I thought it was better to be safe.”

Alexei stops, his thumb on top of the cork, and looks at the cardboard delivery boxes. I almost think he’s going to laugh at my pathetic attempt to take care of someone so far above me on the food chain, but he just raises his eyebrows, fascinated.

“You bought raw kibbeh,” he repeats, a statement of wonder. The idea of cheap Arab food in his multi-million dollar apartment is indeed an alien concept.

“With plenty of mint,” I add, feeling my face heat up. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but I thought it would be a reminder that life still has flavor. Or that it can, if we don’t get poisoned first.”

The cork lets out a muffled sigh, the exact sound of a tradition fulfilled. Then, with a ceremonial gesture, he serves the champagne into two glasses, taking care not to spill a single drop. He hands me mine, and the brief contact of our fingers short-circuits my nerves.

Alexei takes the first sip, closes his eyes, and lets out a short, almost imperceptible sigh, but one that gives everything away. Relief. I drink too, the sparkling liquid burning my tongue and washing away the metallic taste that has been in my mouth since he left.

“Say it,” he says suddenly. “You’re ruminating on something.”

I hesitate, pathetically. In my head, I should run into his arms, tear out all the answers, demand promises that nothing will change, that I won’t be erased because I’m no longer useful or wake up alone in an apartment full of food for two. In practice, I just lean my elbow on the table and look at the floor.

“I thought you wouldn’t come back,” I say. “I thought they were going to cut you into little pieces and serve you with dry ice at the family Christmas cocktail party.”

Alexei laughs, and it’s a strange laugh because there’s no joy in it. “It was a possibility.” He pauses. “My brother has been exiled.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?” I say, feeling like I’m treading on territory I don’t know well. Because he doesn’tseemhappy about it. I recall his words and repeat them, “He was the one who betrayed you.”

“Yes.”

Except it doesn’t sound likeyes.

I take a sip of champagne.

“You don’t seem happy,” I say.

He takes a while to answer. “…I’m just thinking.”

I want to ask how the meeting went. I want to ask for details, names, how many bodies were left behind, if he got hurt, if there’s a new cut hidden under his shirt. I realize I’ve never really asked. I’ve never asked him to tell me. About his family, what made them so fucked up.