by Sophia Henry
2
Stasya
Three Years Earlier
January 1991
As if mourning the loss of my soulmate wasn’t miserable enough, Slava brought me to New York.
To live with Dmitri Morozov.
I can’t help but wonder if this is a punishment because Kirill’s death was my fault.
A week ago, Dmitri graciously opened his home to me and I’ve barely spoken three words to him. I’m not ungrateful. I just can’t bear to have a conversation or even smile. I have no energy to pretend.
Still, he looms over me, pretending like he’s doing something else when he’s watching my every move. Am I hungry? Do I want to shower? Shall we get some fresh air today?
The answer is no.
I spent the first few days locked in my room—avoiding his kindness. The only time I came out was after I heard the door lock. That meant he was gone and I could roam free without someone breathing down my neck.
Dmitri has never lost anyone important before. He’s never witnessed mafia violence. He’s never seen his best friend—the love of his life—murdered in front of his eyes.
He asks how he can help. He tells me he’s here for me if I need him.
There’s nothing he can do to help. There’s nothing he can do to take away the pain that sears through my heart every day.
Sometimes, I want to end it all. I want someone else to comprehend how empty and hopeless it feels inside after you lose someone who meant everything to you. Loss sucks the life out of every breath.
Empathy – not sympathy.
I’m sure I can find someone to take me out. Pay for my own hit. New York City and mafia go hand in hand. Here, I can even pick the nationality of the organization—Italian, Russian, Chechnyan.
Being alive feels like I’m a traitor to my grief, but that’s why I push through. I deserve to be in pain.
When I hear the door lock, I know Dmitri has left to do whatever he does during the day. Maybe he goes to a morning skate with the team. Maybe it’s practice. Maybe he plays shuffleboard in Central Park. I haven’t bothered to ask.
I slip out of the guest room and shuffle to the kitchen. Except for a few random things like butter and pickles, his refrigerator is empty. What does he eat?
Discouraged, I close the door and open a cupboard. It’s fairly empty as well, but there are a few boxes. I pull a blue one from the shelf and look at the front. The photo shows something resembling pasta in a yellowish-orange sauce.
I hold the package to my ear and shake it. It sounds like dry pasta, but where am I supposed to get the disgusting orange sauce?
If I had energy, I would go back to my room and grab my English-Russian dictionary. It would be painstaking, but I could look up the words on the box one by one.
“Let’s see how it goes,” I say out loud and rip the top off the box. Pasta flies out, scattering across the counter. “Damn!”
I curse and try to corral the bouncing smile-shapes into a pile with my hands. Peering into the box, I find the rest of the pasta and a white envelope. I slide it out and shake it. Doesn’t sound like sauce.
What in the world could be in there?
Though I can always find a reason to complain about living in Russia, there were good things, like the shared kitchens. Though Babushka taught me most of what I know, I spent years watching everyone cook. Having the experience of learning different methods and recipes helped me become pretty good.
Curiosity gets the best of me and I rip open the packet. A puff of orange smoke emerges. I wave my hand in front of my nose and pray I don’t sneeze. It can’t be what I think it is in there. Squeezing the sides opens the package, allowing me to peer inside and get a closer look before making a rash judgment.
Yep. It’s a fine orange powder. Which I can only assume is how I’m supposed to get the sauce depicted on the front of the box.
If this is normal American food, I’m not impressed.
I drop the packet into the box and sweep the pasta back into it as well. Then I set it on the counter. Just as I’m wondering what I’m going to do about food, the lock flips and the door opens.
I stare at the door, frozen in fear.
Dmitri jumps when he looks up, surprised to see me. His hand flies to his chest. “Stasya! I didn’t expect to see you there.”
“Sorry to scare you,” I say softly. “I was looking for something to eat.”
He closes the door behind him and shrugs off his jacket. Tossing the coat onto a chair next to the door, he glances at the counter.
“I didn’t know what to do with that,” I explain quickly, grabbing the box and looking down at it. “I’ll buy you a new one, I promise.”
He smiles and moves toward me slowly. “It’s okay. Really.”
“There’s nothing here.” I set the box on the counter again. “What do you eat?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t go shopping.” He looks tired as he rubs his forehead. “This week has been crazy busy, so I’ve been eating out a lot.”
This man who opened his home to help me is apologizing for not having food. I’m ashamed of myself for being an ungrateful jerk. “You don’t have to apologize to me, Dmitri. I should be the one doing that.” I glance up at him quickly and swallow my embarrassment. “I’m really sorry. I—”
“Hey,” he says with a smile, reaching out and gently touching my forearm. “You don’t have to be sorry for anything. You’re going through a rough time. You’re grieving.”
My first instinct is to reel back, but I fight the urge. “I appreciate that, but it’s still no reason for me to act as rude as I have. You’re a saint for putting up with me, Dima.”
“If I have the means to help, I will help.”
His comment causes a bristle to run through me, raising my defensive wall again. I can’t help but notice how different his attitude is now that he has freedom. He had the means to help me when I went to him after Vanya defected and he didn’t.
It’s amazing how people forget.
He takes my silence as a to continue, “I can’t imagine what you’re going through. I’ll give you all the time you need to heal. Just let me know what you need and it’s yours.”
“I don’t need anything from you,” I say.
And it’s true. I don’t need him or his time or his money.
I need Kirill.
Grief makes people hard, cold, indifferent. My heart is no longer open and ready to be filled to the brim with as much love as it can possibly hold. It’s crammed with concrete. Impenetrable.
He rolls his eyes as he shrugs off his coat. “And we’re back to square one.”
“Why would Slava send me here—” I look around his apartment in frustration, elbowing him as I push past. When I get to the living room, I drop onto the couch. “—to you?”
He follows me into the living room, squinting at me as if trying to figure something out. “Why do you hate me so much?”
I search his face, unable to determine if he’s joking or just clueless.
His comment about helping if he has the ability to has my insides on fire.
“Why do I hate you? Let me count the ways.” I hold up one finger. “After Vanya’s defection, I went to you for help in the most vulnerable, upset state I’ve ever been in. You denied me with cold heartlessness.”
His mouth opens, but I shut him down shaking my head with zeal. It’s been days since I’ve eaten. I’ve spent the hours alone—crying, sleeping, and wishing I wouldn’t wake up. When I wasn’t thinking about Kirill, all the pain Dmitri put me through rolled through my head on repeat.
“Oh no! You wanted me to talk to you, so here are my words. You will stand there and listen.”
Dmitri nods and folds his arms over his chest, silently allowing me to continue. As if he has any right to be defensive.
“You were a coward. You put yourself above your friend.”
“I would’ve gotten shot, Stasya!” He interjects, unable to hold it in anymore. “If I talked to
you I would have been shot. Is that what you wanted? You hate me so much you wanted me dead?”
I grab the pillow next to me and hug it, avoiding his eyes. “I didn’t hate you,” I say in a flat, breezy tone I use when I simply don’t care.
“I’m not a fucking idiot. You’ve hated me since the New Year’s Eve party.”
Anger bubbles under my skin. “Can you blame me?” I ask, swinging the pillow into the back of the couch wishing it were his face. “You had sex with me and never spoke to me again. As if that wasn’t bad enough, you acted like I didn’t even exist.”
“Your brother threatened me!” He yells back.
“What?” I ask, stunned by the revelation.
“Look, I admit, I was really drunk and not making the best decisions. Everyone was wasted,” he says. “I told Vanya because I didn’t want there to be a weird vibe between us. We feed off each other so much during games. Messing with that chemistry would be catastrophic.”
I hug the scratchy throw pillow to my chest. Is he always this dramatic about hockey? I mean, I grew up with a man whose priority was the game, but he was never this ridiculous about it.
“You told him five seconds after we had sex! You didn’t think it was a little weird? I’m his sister, not some random girl you got off with in the bathroom.”
“Let’s get one thing straight,” Dmitri corrects me. “You were not a conquest. I really liked you, Stasya. I saw a future with you.” He takes a breath and looks away as if he’s suddenly bashful. “I still do.”
“Then why didn’t you talk to me instead of pretending like I didn’t exist?” I ask, ignoring the last part. How can he even think of talking to me like that right now? “If Vanya pulled the bother card, I would have understood. But you didn’t explain. You didn’t say anything at all.”
What do I even care? I’m tired and annoyed, picking a fight over something that happened a lifetime ago. It doesn’t even matter in the grand scheme of everything.
“If it had only been Vanya, I would have, but,” Dmitri trails off.
“But what?” I’m hooked. What could have possibly stopped him from speaking to me about something so important between us?
“When the mafia got involved, I backed off. No offense to you, Stasya. But, I didn’t want to be involved in that shit.” He laughs without smiling. “Yet here I am.”
He must be losing his mind. The mafia didn’t want anything to do with me until Vanya defected, which was months after Dmitri and I had sex.
“What are you talking about, Dima? What mafia got involved?”
“Kirill.”
“Kirill wasn’t even there that night.”
“Yes. He was.” Dmitri nods his head. “He was standing right next to Vanya when I told him about us.”
“What?” I screech. “You told Vanya we had sex while other people were right there? It wasn’t a quiet conversation between friends?” My eyes must be wide as saucers because it feels like they might pop out of my head. I can’t believe he’d talk about out in front of everyone at the party.
“I told you I was really drunk, Stasya!”
“Oh my god,” I sigh, hiding my face with my hands.
“Vanya was pissed, but I thought Kirill might kill me. He threw me against a wall and said if I ever touched you again, he’d beat me until I was so unrecognizable the police would need dental records to identify my body.”
“Oh my god,” I repeat.
Though I would have never believed it back then, it sounds exactly like something Kirill would say. I didn’t know he was there because I never came back out to the party. How he knew about me and Dima makes total sense. Yet he sent me here to live with him.
“So, as much as I liked you and wanted to be with you, that guy scared the shit out of me.”
“Yeah, I can understand that.” It’s true, I do understand, but I’m also noticing a pattern with Dmitri. He doesn’t stand up for what he wants. He didn’t fight for me. When I went to the training base to talk to him, he wouldn’t tell me what happened with Vanya. He chose not to defect like other players, waiting until the rules lifted and he could go legally instead. That part I understand because the stakes were so high for Scarlet Army players back then. Defecting was a death sentence.
I also understand why he wouldn’t want to get involved in the mafia, but at that time Kirill’s threat held the same weight as Vanya’s—a big brother protecting his sister. Kirill just chose to exaggerate the violence.
“I hated not talking to you, Stasya. It killed me knowing how angry you were with me. I didn’t blame you, but…” he trails off again.
Why would Slava bring me here? How could this coward possibly keep me safe?
I know I have Kirill on a pedestal. But how could I not? He protected me. He provided for me. He stood up for himself and others. He never backed down.
Instead of venting my frustrations, I say, “You don’t have to explain. I understand how intimidating Kirill was.”
Dmitri takes a deep breath. “Look, I don’t want you to think I expect anything from you. When Kirill asked me if he could move you here I agreed because I care about you and your safety.”
“Excuse me?”
“I care about you, Stasya. I know this isn’t the time, but if you—”
“No!” I hold my hand up to stop him from continuing. “Dima, I can’t even comprehend thinking about anything like that right now. I’m—I—" I shake my head, getting back to the words that sparked my confusion. “You said Kirill asked you if he could move me here?”
“Yes. A few weeks ago,” Dmitri responds. “It actually surprised me. I didn’t think anyone had a choice with him. He usually just does what he wants.”
Dmitri might still be talking, but I’ve tuned him out. I’m trying to wrap my head around the revelation.
Kirill was planning on moving me to America.
Small clues pop into my head. The English-Russian dictionary. The walk down memory lane. The backpack he had packed for me, which he said was a picnic lunch.
He was sending me away on the day he died.
“Did he say why?” I ask.
“Yeah, Stasya,” Dmitri rolls his eyes. “Your mafia leader lover gave me all the intimate details of why he was getting you out of Moscow.”
I’m too stunned to be annoyed by Dmitri’s sarcasm.
Why would Kirill want to get rid of me? How could he not tell me? He said he would never lie to me—or keep anything from me. I trusted he was telling the truth.
With the exception of our intimate moments together, he rarely showed emotion. He could have just shot a man in the head before coming home to enjoy a candlelight dinner with me and I wouldn’t have had any clue.
But I never doubted his love.
And I’m not about to get into my feelings about Kirya with Dmitri.
“I wish you would have told me, Dima,” I say softly. “I didn’t know about what Vanya or Kirill said. If I would have known, I would have understood.”
“I know. I was selfish back then, Stasya. I had a lot on my mind with hockey and getting drafted and—” He approaches the couch, sitting down gingerly as if I’m a scared cat ready to scratch or nip. “I was an asshole. I didn’t think about you or how that night affected you. I truly apologize for that. And I’m sorry for how I handled it.”
Maybe I’m tired of holding so much hate in my heart. Maybe I’m worn out from the grief suffocating my soul, but I decide to let it all go and give Dmitri the benefit of the doubt.
At the time, I’d been too hurt to see the situation from any perspective other than my own. He wasn’t—isn’t—a bad person. He’s human. How old was he at the time? Nineteen or twenty? It’s not so hard to believe he wasn’t intentionally being a jerk. He was thinking about his own future—and the people who could ruin it.
After a year of being around mafia, where everything is grudges and anger and control and power. I don’t want to live with anger anymore. Holding a grudge against someone only hur
ts me. Forgiveness needs to start somewhere.
Taking a deep breath, I take Dmitri’s hand in mine and look at him. “I’m sorry for being so ungrateful since I’ve been here and I’m sorry for being angry with you for all these years.”
He squeezes my hands. “I’m sorry for not talking to you about it. I’m sorry for not helping you when I should have.”
“Today is a perfect day for a new start, yes?”
He smiles and nods.
“Good.” I release his hands and sit up straight. “I’m starving. There has to be better food in New York than orange dust packets, yes?”
Dmitri laughs. “Yes. Do you want to go out or should I order something?”
“I think I need to get out of the apartment,” I say honestly. My hands fly to my hair, which feels like rats built a nest on top of my head. “Can I take a shower first?”
“Of course.” He rises from the couch, then holds out his hand. I grab on and he pulls me to my feet. “Let’s get you set up.”
3
Stasya
March 1991
After our heated discussion, Dmitri and I settled into an easy friendship. For the last few months, it feels like we’ve been living as though we’re an old married couple—roommates not lovers. I’m nowhere near ready to think about a relationship—with him or anyone. He goes to work and I take care of the apartment. Sometimes I get the feeling he wants more. He doesn’t push me or talk about it, but I feel the tension.
The last thing I want to do is lead him on, but I don’t know what to do. I can’t reciprocate because I’m not at a point where I have anything to give. And—I don’t have feelings for him. A few years ago, when we were all hanging out together and our friends were pairing off, I had feelings. But he squashed them quickly—no matter what the reason. And, though I forgive him, I can’t see past that devastation.
I don’t know anyone—so he’s my only source of conversation and entertainment. I thought coming from the largest city in Russia would prepare me for life New York, but I was wrong. Everything about New York is overwhelming and nothing at all like Moscow.