Misha translated the paramedic’s words to sign language, in case Alek was too frazzled to read lips. “I’m right here, Alek. Right here.”
Alek gave her a nod. It was the, I can do it on my own, sis nod. She stood back, wiped her stinging eyes and hugged her father. In fact, she hugged them all tightly. How could she ever think that this shit with Dimitri would end with her life? It would never end unless she did something about it.
Standing back with an arm around her sobbing father, they watched the Pierogi Palace burn. Her parents had started it after they’d married. Both her mother and father met a few years after their immigration, but had been together since. They’d grown up there. Now it was gone. It was like a memory of Hannah Minksi being wiped from the face of the earth.
Misha overheard two firemen speaking behind her.
“Tell you what, lucky that kid had a wet blanket over him, otherwise he’d have burned alive.”
Another responded: “Don’t know how the other dude got out unharmed.”
“Fucked if I know. Where is he? Ask him.”
“Nah, already looked. He’s gone.”
Misha searched the parking lot, now filling with police questioning bystanders. Wyatt wasn’t there. Disappointment made her soul heavy. He was gone. With nothing left to do, she stood with her family and watched the Fire Department shoot water at the only source of income their family had.
Well… it wasn’t their only source.
Thirteen
By the time the Minski family returned home that evening, Wyatt had tidied the apartment to the best of his ability. Using rusty tools he’d found in the garage, he reinforced the bed and set it back to its original height. The light fixture that fell was in working order, and he re-connected it to the ceiling. After a good Hoover, the only thing out of place was the crack in the wall and the broken doorknob. He’d make a trip to the hardware tomorrow to fix that.
Showered and dressed, he sat at the edge of his bed, staring at the contacts screen on his smart-phone. Thumbing through the list, he hovered over the names of his family. First there were his adoptive parents, Mary and Flint. Parker, his eldest brother and leader of the Deadly Seven. His other siblings made up the rest of the seven: Liza, Tony, Sloan, Griffin, Evan.
Seven.
Once there were eight.
But that was long ago and something they rarely spoke about.
Being only five years old at the time, he didn’t remember much except the lab they were born into, the tiny room they grew up in, and their kind and loving eldest sister, Despair. Evan hadn’t yet been born, and seven of them were squeezed into the living quarters, raised by nuns, experimented on, and surveyed through two-way glass by sick scientists. Their biological mother was the lead geneticist who perhaps felt because she grew them in her womb that she had the right to change their DNA and mix it with other things. Repulsive, unnamed things now swimming in Wyatt’s blood and making him invulnerable to things like fire and knives.
He laughed at the irony. Invulnerable. Where was this power when Sara had slit his throat, ruining his culinary career and his life?
Wyatt studied his phone as Evan’s name scrolled by. Evan had been nothing but honest with Wyatt. He’d warned that Sara was a liar, that she worked for the enemy, but Wyatt had been so eager to have a fiancée, to lead a normal life not born from a lab, that he’d made himself believe Sara was the one for him. That he could have a family, a career, and children of his own, despite his Yin-Yang tattoo never holding its balanced shape.
His fucking Frankenstein mother programmed their DNA to recognize a person who embodied their exact opposite, someone to balance the sin they were destined to fight, and to make life livable. It all seemed so ridiculous, so outrageous, that none of them had a choice in who they would be with for the rest of their lives. Wyatt had rebelled, heart and soul.
But the heart was the most selfish muscle of all, and the mind was easily fooled.
There was no denying what he was, no escaping it. Mary knew that. It was why she sent all seven of them around the world to learn the art of war for years on end, and why she constantly told them stories of the fabled one they would meet one day.
He snapped his gaze to the door as it opened.
Misha stepped in and the breath caught in Wyatt’s throat. She looked like an angel underneath the light of the newly fixed globe. Her blond ringlets glowed in a tumbling up-do and, despite the soot on her shoulders, she had a rosy complexion and a genuine smile on her face.
“You’re still here.” She cast her gaze over the room. “And you cleaned. Wow. You cook and clean. You’re hired!” She laughed, then fizzled out, no doubt thinking of her family business now a charred skeleton.
Despite all this, Wyatt sensed no wrath in her. How could she not be furious? She’d said the fire was caused by someone called Dimitri, who he guessed was the gold-bling man she’d argued with. Probably the one she owed money to.
You’re not angry at the man who did that to you today? he asked, but she had trouble following his lips, so he typed the message on his cell and showed it to her.
“No,” she said simply. “I’m upset, yes, but I don’t have room in my life to waste emotions on an asshole like him. Karma will come for him one day.”
Do you need money? he asked.
“All the money in the world won’t be enough to get rid of him. Anyway, I didn’t come here to talk about that. I came to invite you to have a meal with us.” She grinned. “We’re frying up some pierogi.”
He hesitated.
She might not be angry, but he certainly was. Shame and guilt were coming in a close second. If he’d not run from his new powers, from his destiny, that restaurant might still be standing.
Seeing his reticence, she came over and sat next to him, sighing. “Yeah, this is new for me too.”
New for her?
She dipped her head and blushed. “I mean, it’s the first time I’ve invited someone I’ve been… um, intimate with, to my family home.” She scratched her head. “Normally there is no second date. Not that this is a date. God.” She scrubbed her face. “The family want to thank you, and Alek’s asking about you. Do you want to come, or not?”
No. He shook his head and went back to his phone, not sure what he was doing with himself, but not that.
After putting up with his cold shoulder, she went to the door. “Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find us.”
And then she was gone.
Wyatt wasn’t sure how long he sat there feeling sorry for himself, and then he heard the sound of music coming from the main house. Modern music and the mouthwatering smell of dinner cooking. Butter, onions…
Then the song’s chorus hit—Welcome to my house—and he almost smiled. She was back to her music games, enticing him over, and what was he doing? Stewing in his misery. Fuck, he was a moody bastard. All he needed was to play some Celine Dion, eat ice-cream and shed some motherfucking tears in the shower. Was he going to miss out on life because of his inability to admit failure? Maybe Evan was right and Misha was it for him. Maybe this woman would make his life perfect.
Would that be so bad?
There had been no ulterior motive with her invitation. It was simply a thank you for your help.
He went to the door and looked down at the house, studying the family through a window. Misha’s aunt was in the kitchen doing the frying. Roksana tried to taste something from the pan, but got her fingers whacked with a wooden spoon. She pirouetted out of the view, laughing. Vooyek walked to a table only partly seen in the background. A tall bottle of vodka sat in front of a series of empty crystal shot glasses, waiting to be filled. Celebrating, or commiserating? With the music in the background, he guessed the former, which made him curious. Why celebrate after losing your livelihood?
There were more people sitting at the table. More family Misha wanted Wyatt to meet.
She’d never had a boyfriend over for a meal, or a lover, or anyone she was inti
mate with. This was new territory for her too. That thought bounced around in Wyatt’s head until warmth spread from his chest. He was her first.
It felt good.
He supposed he could eat.
Fourteen
Wyatt let himself in the back door of the Minski family home. The smell of fried onions and bacon made his mouth water. The next smell he noticed was oiled cedar. Just like the restaurant, there was a lot of wood in the home. Furniture, wall art, paneling. Macrame textile wall hangings. Potted plants and knick-knacks. But the house was warm and inviting, so he wouldn’t change a thing.
Damn, he was turning into a soft-cock.
The closer he got to the kitchen, the stronger the sounds of laughter and a television beyond. At the doorframe, he folded his arms and leaned against the jamb. The kitchen was small. The old Smeg fridge, free-standing oven and chrome-plated dining chairs, held a seventies charm. An elderly man and woman played a game of cards at the round table. Their wrinkles were so deep you could hardly see their eyes, but they were creased from smiling. Ciocia Violetta was now at the sink, washing up, humming a happy tune. Pierogi was sizzled in the pan.
Eight plates were laid out on the table. Wyatt counted in his head. Unless there was another person hiding in the house he didn’t know about, the eighth plate was for him. That gave him a strange feeling.
Misha walked in holding some cutlery and froze. “You came!”
Her squeal was so loud that her aunt twisted from the sink, eyebrows almost hitting her headscarf. The elderly couple at the table both looked up. Roksana rushed in, shortly followed by her father and brother.
Wyatt waved gingerly.
Misha grinned and the tense mood dispelled. She turned to the table. “Babcia, Dziadzio, this is Wyatt. WYATT.” She had to shout so they could hear. “Wyatt, these are my grandparents.”
They stared at Wyatt with pale eyes and then nodded. He held out his hand for a shake but both had already gone back to their game, gummy mouths wobbling as if they chewed something.
“Ye-den, dva, tshih…” the man said as he counted his cards.
His wife blinked and nudged him. “No. You take too many.”
Misha took him by the arm. “Don't mind them, they’re almost as blind as they are deaf, but aren’t they lovely together? Been playing the same game for fifty years.”
He wondered who was winning.
Vooyek pushed passed Misha and took Wyatt’s hand in a sturdy, gnarled grip.
“Thank you,” he said, blue eyes watering. “For saving my boy’s life.”
Wyatt patted Vooyek on the shoulder. It was nothing.
Perhaps he mouthed the words because Alek was the next to burst in. He touched his fingers to his chin and moved his hand out toward Wyatt. It looked as though he said “thank you” as well.
Wyatt gave Alek a once over. Outwardly he looked fine. The wet blanket had done a good job at protecting the boy’s skin as he’d raced them through the burning dining room to escape. No doubt, they’d all wondered why Wyatt didn’t have a scorch mark on him, but not one of them had said a word on the matter.
“I’m glad you changed your mind.” Misha gave him a lopsided smile. “You’re just in time for a celebratory drink. Here, have one.” She poured vodka into the waiting line of shot glasses.
His furrowed brow wasn’t lost on her, so she added: “You may ask what we have to celebrate?”
He nodded, accepting his glass, careful not to spill on the linoleum floor.
“Well…” She picked up her own glass. “We’re all alive. We’re all here. And… we have insurance.”
“There is always a positive in every negative,” Ciocia said beside him, collecting her own glass. “We lost our business, but now there is nothing to protect. We pay protection money to those bastards, but no more.” Her last words were said with gusto.
“And my arthritis makes me an old man,” Vooyek said with sad eyes. “I cannot run the restaurant forever.”
“I have more time to dance!” Roksana lifted her leg and pointed her toe at the ceiling, narrowly missing a jug of water on the kitchen bench. She laughed and made an “Oops face” which had her family rolling their eyes. Although he wasn’t allowed a shot glass, Alek sidled up next to Wyatt and watched him like a hawk.
Misha leaned forward and whispered. “I think he wants to be you when he grows up.” Then more loudly, “I think we are ready for some good fortune. Sto lat.”
“Sto lat.” Vooyek shot his vodka back.
Everyone around the table did the same. Sto lat.
Then they proceeded to sing a raucous song with the same Polish word repeated again and again. Alek couldn’t hear, but joined in with the clapping, thumping on the table, and stamping his feet, checking every few seconds to see if Wyatt watched. He couldn’t help but smile at the kid.
The singing lasted another couple of choruses. Perhaps they’d had a few shots before he arrived. It was hard not to be amused. Their behavior made Wyatt think of raucous drunks in an Irish bar. Even Misha’s grandparents joined in, clinking their empty glasses together and slamming them on the table to the beat of the song.
When they were done, Misha turned to Wyatt with pink cheeks. “We usually sing it on birthdays to wish good fortune, so we get a bit rowdy, but I think it’s valid tonight.” Seeing his glass still in his hand, she bade him to drink it. “Bad luck if you don’t.”
Sto lat, he mouthed and shot it back.
“Great!” Misha exclaimed, taking his glass. “You go and sit in the lounge room and relax, we’ve got the food covered.”
Um, I don’t think so.
He was a chef, his place was in the kitchen, but both Ciocia Violetta and Misha ushered him out with Roksana and the other men. When he resisted, Misha added, “If it makes you feel better, you can do the dishes later. But for now, it’s almost done. Shoo. Good God, it’s like trying to move an elephant. Shoo.” She pushed him again.
Wyatt stumbled into the living room where Alek, Vooyek and Roksana had turned off the music and put on a home video. The room was a little musty, but lived in. Comfortable.
Feeling out of place, Wyatt stood at the arched doorway to watch. On screen, a heavily pregnant blond woman was fluttering around an outdoor table, helping two young girls shell beans into a red pot. Every few moments, she would rub her belly and Roksana would rub Alek on the head. There was a male voice in the background of the movie—probably Vooyek on the camera. One of the girls looked around five years old, probably Roksana, and the eldest, was perhaps eight or nine, making that girl a young Misha. Wyatt smiled as the girl chewed on her frizzy ends, then spat out her hair to make room for a bean.
“This is my favorite bit,” Roksana murmured from the sofa.
When Wyatt looked back at the screen, the girls screamed, the camera wobbled in a frenzy as something was happening. A bird had tried to peck at Roksana’s hand to get to the beans, but Misha had protected her with a broomstick handle, swatting at the cheeky bird until it flew away. Their mother cooed to the girls, and hugged them.
“No need to fear. As long as your sister is here, she will protect you.”
The camera panned out to a full-length shot of the wild, young Misha standing proud, holding her broom with dignity.
A sigh next to Wyatt drew his attention. Misha had come from the kitchen. His gaze darted back to where Roksana, her father and Alek were beaming at the screen. Their expressions were the polar opposite of Misha's. Her face was full of something other than happiness—concern, perhaps. Duty. Dread, maybe?
“She died in childbirth,” Misha whispered to Wyatt. “We miss her incredibly.”
Died in childbirth. So, not long after that video which made the mother’s declaration about protection something Misha took seriously, perhaps to the point of getting herself involved with the wrong people. The memory of Misha arguing with Dimitri outside the restaurant came to mind. There were things she wasn’t telling the rest of the family, and while they seemed to
believe their involvement with that man was done, Misha didn’t appear so sure.
She picked up the remote and turned the video off. “Come on guys, Wyatt doesn’t want to see soppy old family videos. Let’s put on a movie that we all like.”
Alek’s eyes lit up, and he launched to the DVD collection on a shelf next to the TV, almost tripping over his own feet.
Wyatt snorted. Who watches DVDs these days? But just as quickly as the sarcastic thought rose, he stifled it down. There was no place for it there. Instead, he forced himself to sit down on the vacant two-seater sofa and settled in.
Alek pulled out the Die Hard DVD and showed it to Wyatt for approval.
Wyatt smirked at the kid, then punched his fist to his heart in a classic gangsta show of solidarity: A man of my own heart.
A blush stained Alek’s cheeks as he set the disc in the player and they settled in to watch. A few minutes later, Misha came back and handed everyone a plate of food, then lodged herself next to him to eat. When her bare feet shoved underneath his thighs, and stayed there, he arched an eyebrow at her. Make yourself at home, why don’t you.
“What,” she mumbled through a mouthful of food. “I get cold feet.”
She promptly ignored him and went back to the movie. As if it weren’t a huge deal that her cold feet burned a hole through his jeans. As if she didn’t feel the connection of their bodies. As if she didn’t know what her touch was doing to him.
When he finished his meal, unable to help himself, he set aside his plate and pulled her feet onto his lap where he warmed them with his palms. The adoring look she cast his way made it worth it.
It was almost midnight when Wyatt got back to his borrowed apartment. He felt more at peace than he had in a long time. Good food, good company, and… he felt good. There was no other way around it. Not once had he accidentally destroyed something with his new power. Alek had even taught Wyatt a few basic sign language movements. He now knew Thank you, Yes, No, I love you… That last one was awkward, but Alek had insisted teaching it. In return, Alek had asked Wyatt to teach him some self-defense moves. He wanted to be like John McLain from Die Hard. No one in the family had objections, so Wyatt, already a little buzzed from a few more vodka shots, taught Alek how to block an attack.
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