“Who’s your pretty friend?”
“Just like you said, she’s my pretty friend.”
“’Cause Gregor didn’t mention nothin’ about a friend.” The dumber one spoke, reaching into his pocket.
Dmitri swung his gun, taking aim at dumb and nosy.
“Hey, man. Just sayin’.”
Elena appeared at her front door, atop the long flight of stairs. She raised a hatbox, the old-fashioned kind with a strap, just the right size for a rusalka-possessed teapot. The distraction lasted just long enough for less-dumb to snap a photo of Sonya with his phone.
“We’ll just send this picture along to him, so he knows what’s keeping you busy.”
Elena’s heels thudded on the street and she ignored the men, stepping into the car with a kind of royal dignity that she and Gregor, alone among the surviving Liskos, possessed.
“Nice wheels, lady, but you might want to get that engine looked at.”
Elena leaned over the gear stick to smile at him, flashing her middle finger at the same time. “Get in, Dmitri.”
He did, pulling Sonya down on his lap again. Elena passed the hatbox to her. “Take care of that, dear. Not sure what would happen to you if it were broken.”
Sonya shivered, and Dmitri’s mind filled with images of another woman, dead and bleeding by his gun. He hoped he could protect Sonya better—teapot, soul, and lovely body too. A body, which began to wiggle in his lap in a very distracting way.
He sucked in a breath and barked out a clipped whisper. “Sonya.”
“Sorry. I’m just trying to find a good position. I don’t want to squish you.”
He closed his eyes, wondering how long it would take the inexperienced ghost to realize squishing was the least of his concerns.
“I’ll drop you two downtown, and then I’m going to the office. But first, I might call my domineering prick of a brother and chew him out for sending those thugs to my house.”
Chapter 19
Gregor wanted to pace. When his legs had worked fine, he hadn’t had much interest—it was Dmitri or Elena who had required perpetual motion, not him. But now, it seemed like the answer to all his problems. Probably because he couldn’t actually do it without looking like the cripple he was.
When the Energy Minister appeared for their meeting, Gregor fantasized. His gaze traced the pattern he’d have liked to walk around his office from behind his desk, following the burgundy border of his immense Turkish rug—each colorful peacock woven into the carpet would be a steppingstone for his once-agile feet.
By the time his next appointment arrived, he found himself too restless to simply sit and imagine walking. Perched on the front of his desk, he greeted a new customer, a Black Sea shipping magnate. The man’s furry caterpillar of a mustache showed plenty of grey, but his eyes still flashed wide when he saw Gregor’s cane resting alongside him at the desk.
Perhaps the man assumed weakness, because his highly reputed negotiating skills fell flat, and Gregor almost had his signature on an over-priced security contract. He poured the man a glass of brandy—the harsh stuff made from mulberries that those Georgian barbarians liked to drink.
Lifting his glass, he said, “You know, Gelashvili, I like you. I’d like to provide your security for a long time. Let me sweeten this deal for you.” He scribbled a number on to a scrap of paper, a hundred thousand euros less than the offer Gelashvili had agreed to. That way, if Dmitri did come back, he wouldn’t have to re-negotiate this contract for a long time.
Although a gentle surge of regret nearly erupted in a laugh—the Georgian would take one look at Dmitri and assume the boy was nothing but a muscle-bound enforcer. Dima would have him over a barrel in half the time Gregor had.
Red faced and laughing jovially, Gelashvili shook Gregor’s hand far higher and lower than was usual for a polite handshake. His friendliness was infectious, and Gregor found himself patting the man’s back when he turned to leave, suddenly aware it was the last time he’d ever see him.
The door clicked shut, and Gregor slid onto the floor, fatigued by his effort to stand, even with the desk to lean against. He ran his fingers through the thick pile of the carpet and hoped his nephew would be back very soon to wear a deep path into it, muddying the colors.
His phone signaled an incoming message. He reached overhead and patted on the desk until he found the buzzing device and examined the photo texted to him.
He dropped the phone and it bounced on the rug.
Her?
How could it be her?
Had she lived? She would be as old as him.
He collapsed onto the rug, trembling. Impossible. He’d pulled her lifeless body from the river and laid it by her sister himself. Two pretty girls in wet shifts. Idly, he’d wondered whether the water or the gunshot had killed her, and then Ivan had dragged him away, holding up a sack of valuables the girl had dropped like he’d earned a prize.
Impossible.
The memories had haunted him. How could they not?
He forced himself to look at the photo again, enlarging her face. So vibrant and alive, pink cheeks and rosy lips. You never saw rosebud lips like those anymore—like they stopped making them in the nineteen forties. He’d never forgotten those girls, their faces etched in his memory. Because a man never forgot his first kill, especially not when she was a beautiful, young woman.
There was only one explanation.
But surely not. Surely this whole thing was a hallucination brought on by his pain medication, by the cancer devouring him from the inside out. It must have finally wormed its way into his brain.
In his hand, the phone rang.
Elena would know.
“Lisko.”
“What the hell are you doing? My house. You sent them to my house,” she shouted. “Do you know how careful I am to protect my identity, how far I’ve buried my connections to you? Years. It’s taken me years to build this identity, to build my career, and then, in one fell swoop, you endanger—”
She was completely right, but he didn’t have time for it. “Who is the girl?”
“What?”
“Who is the girl with Dmitri?” He raked his fingertips through the pile and clenched his fists.
“Why do you care?”
He modulated his voice, carefully keeping it as calm as ever. “I want to know why he’s not finishing his mission and coming home.”
“What is his mission?
“Who is the girl?”
“You first.”
He sighed, heavy with the ache of every cancer cell in his bones, and the fatigue of every day of his life accrued in that one moment. “Okay, like when we were kids, we’ll say it at the same time.”
“Fine. On the count of three. One, two, three.”
“Contract negotiations.”
“Sonya Truss.”
The world went black.
Gregor’s eyes blinked open to hear Elena shouting through the phone, which had fallen inches from where his head rested on the floor.
“Liar. Energy contracts don’t require guns. Tell me the truth…”
He must have only been out for seconds.
“Elena, I have to go.”
He ended the call, knowing full well what he had to do. Even if he’d already done it once before, he had to get rid of the girl. If Dmitri found out about what had happened in that churning cold river all those years ago, he would never come home.
Gregor would die alone, and so would Lisko Enterprises.
Squinting at the screen of his phone, he scrolled for the number of the two lackeys in San Francisco.
“What’s up, Lisko?”
“Kill the girl.”
“Hmm. Have to talk to my boss about that.”
“Name your price.”
“What about the guy?”
“No. He gets hurt, I send somebody after you next. Just the girl.”
“Fifty thousand euros.�
��
“Done.” He’d overcharged Gelashvili twice that anyway.
Chapter 20
The city sped past Sonya where she sat crammed into the little red car. Buildings, trees and people blurred. Folded in thirds around the hatbox and barely balanced on Dmitri’s lap, she turned inward. She probed all the parts of her brain, testing recollections.
Phew. They seemed to have returned en masse.
Her family’s apartment, small and neat, always smelling of cinnamon. The narrow room she’d shared with Anya, barely wide enough for their two beds and a dresser. In that small gap between, Anya had pirouetted and twirled from the time she was a toddler. Her sister’s skill had been a wonder to Sonya. Over the years of strict training, her lithe body became powerful and graceful.
Sonya hadn’t resented her figure, but it would have been a lot easier if they could have worn each other’s clothing. Instead, Sonya had done double duty, sewing dresses and skirts for both of them. Maybe it was better they hadn’t been able to share clothes. They were sisters after all, and rather unsuccessful at sharing anything else—dolls, friends, and the sweet grocer’s boy. Pityr, of the clumsy kisses and gropes, who had captured Anya’s attention as soon as he’d shuffled around once to call on Sonya. He’d become just like any toy the two of them tugged back and forth. Older, and she’d liked to think wiser, Sonya always let go first—she couldn’t really hold on to Pityr anyway. Yes, he had made her aware of all sorts of new desires, but Papa had needed her help in the shop.
Anya’s bold smile—all that life, all that fierce ambition coiled into a ropy, strong dancer’s body. How could she be dead? She’d been too determined to allow even a bullet or a raging river to steal her drive to live.
Their little rivalries had strained Papa, but Mama had sisters. She understood cruelty and bickering were parts of the surest kinds of love.
Oh, Mama and Papa, with their secret glances and rare displays of affection. As soon as Sonya was able to understand the noises, she’d grasped they were very affectionate behind their bedroom door. And on the most joyful occasions like the holy Christmas Eve supper, Papa would pass out a gift to each girl, and then pull Mama onto his lap, sliding out a small box from his pocket. Every year, he gave her something extravagant, by their standards, at least. She rarely wore the rings or pendants, but when she thought no one was looking, she fawned over her square cedar jewelry box as if it were a trove of treasure.
Their love had been bread and butter to Sonya, and she’d always assumed she would find the same someday. It’s why she’d happily let Anya have Pityr.
But here she sat, perched on the lap of a stranger—and dead.
No more someday to look forward to. No time to fall in love or indulge the desires Pityr had first awakened.
Heat overtook her, burning through her muscles and singing across her skin. In her heart, furious, blood-boiling rage erupted without warning. It forced her jaw closed, and she bit down hard, shuddering. The person who had snuffed out all that life—he had to pay. In blood. She tasted the rusty salt of her own blood in her mouth—from tongue or cheek, she didn’t know.
Her fingers cramped. Dmitri shifted, grunting. She’d dug her nails into his thighs. She brought them up to her face, examining them with odd detachment. Her fingers were curled up like angry talons. She tried to inhale, but her tight chest wouldn’t open to receive the breath.
Was the car teetering? Or was it just her nerves, careening wildly and sending pulses of aggression down her limbs?
“Easy, ghost.” He pressed his face into her back, and the vibrations of his voice unraveled the tension gripping her sternum.
She wanted to feel bad, to regret that surge of vengeful anger. But she didn’t. It was so much a part of her, whoever…whatever she was now. There wasn’t nearly enough room in her brain to feel sorry about it.
“Shh.” He hummed against her spine, offering comfort.
He must think she was sad. And she was, but that emotion was just the narrowest crest at the top of every wave of anger breaking over her.
He placed his hands on the outside of her thighs, steadying her. “Look out the window. Have you ever seen buildings so tall?”
She hadn’t, and he knew it. The shiny skyscrapers pointed like rockets into the blue sky. And suddenly, she wanted to know what was behind each one of the million windows coming into view. She lowered her gaze to the street level, where the storefronts and cafes bustled. People sipped steaming beverages from paper cups, walked along holding their glowing mobile phones in front of their faces. A whole new world, the future.
She breathed it in, and suddenly, she couldn’t wait to get out there and explore.
Elena slammed on the brakes and jerked the car to the right. Sonya’s pulse shot up again. Were those bad guys following them?
No. The woman was merely pulling into a parking space.
“Grab the teapot. We’ll throw it in my pack,” Dmitri said.
She had to turn the box on its side to open the lid in the cramped space. Once the pot was out, she slid the empty container down between her legs and Dmitri’s. He opened the car door and rush of cold air blew in the smell of adventure.
Chapter 21
Dmitri steadied Sonya with a hand on each of her hips as she climbed out of Elena’s car. Then she offered him her own hand, making it easier to heft his stiff, cramping frame up from the roadster.
“Thanks, Auntie.”
“Buy her a coat.” As soon as the door closed, she sped off.
Sonya hugged herself tight, shivering and surveying the street, mouth agape. He tilted his face up to see a narrow swath of bright blue sky between the tall buildings of San Francisco’s financial district. Wisps of cloud blew over their distant rooftops, breaking off a huge fog bank sitting atop the hill to the west. The wind was damn cold, and his ghost was underdressed.
He glanced around for a friendly face. An older, well-dressed woman met his eye.
“Excuse me,” he said. “Where can I buy a coat?”
She gave him the appreciative once-over. “For yourself?”
“For her.” He tugged Sonya closer, pressing her into his side.
The woman was already walking away when she answered with a thumb over her shoulder. “Bloomingdales.”
He eyed a shiny wall of glass until the letters of the sign came into focus.
Sonya frowned, surveying the street. “It’s busy. All the buses and cars. Do these people work here?”
“Yeah, or they’re tourists or shoppers.”
She straightened, standing taller and setting her jaw. “I’m going to pretend I am a tourist too.”
She’d had quite a morning getting those nasty memories back. And something had shaken her up real bad in the car. He admired how hard she was working to keep herself in check. She was tough…for a ghost.
He slid his hand up her arm and tugged at her elbow. “Come on. Let’s get you a coat.”
They walked into the department store and circled a bank of elevators. When the expanse of Bloomingdales ground floor opened up before them, Sonya gasped. Outside, she’d seemed engaged. Now she gaped, feet frozen in place as she turned her head in that spectral ballerina way, even though she was not currently a ghost.
Poor thing. If a mall was engineered to compel shopping in the jaded consumers of the twenty-first century, it was serious stimulus overload to a transplant from behind the iron curtain. The artfully arranged retail displays, colorful textures, shiny surfaces, and shinier people were enough to make even Dmitri turn inward. Apparently, he’d been spoiled by Gregor’s personal shopper.
A perfectly dressed man wearing a name badge approached, giving Dmitri a hungry look. He positioned Sonya before him like a shield. “Where will we find coats for women?”
“Third floor, sir. You can take this escalator.”
At the top of the moving staircase, the racks of coats filled an entire corner of the women’s fashion floo
r. Sonya buzzed, silent but alight with energy. Dmitri could easily imagine her flitting from rack to rack like a butterfly, if she didn’t have to lug him around.
“See anything you like?”
“I can’t believe all the colors, there’s so much here.” She raised a hanger, plucking at the button on a corduroy jacket. Turning to the next rack, she said, “How could you ever decide? Oh, this looks warm.” She glided her free hand over synthetic coats stuffed with down and lined with fur while keeping the fingers of her other hand safely intertwined with his.
“Too warm. I can’t believe it gets cold enough for that here. It would be better for Kiev. What about this?” He lifted something fluffy and gray off the shelf, but her gaze was fixed on a green wool jacket several feet away. No, green didn’t do it justice. It was the rich, earthy-emerald color of a still mountain lake. And it was the color of her eyes when she went all rusalka on him.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“It reminds me of Audrey Hepburn.”
He couldn’t picture the actress, but the cut of the wool coat was classic, single-breasted and slim, with a belt. If it weren’t for those horrid boots, she could travel back in time to 1960s Kiev and fit right in, wearing the brightest, most stylish coat on the street.
He unhooked the hanger from the rack and handed it to her.
She held it at arm’s length and shook her head. “What am I, one of those skinny runway models?” She searched the rack until she found the size she was looking for. “Will you help me try it on?”
“Of course.” He would have happily dropped to his knees and stroked her leg while she shrugged into it, but instead, they did the awkward dance of clasping and unclasping hands while she tried to wriggle into the thing.
It fit nicely and added a modest layer over Elena’s too-small dress.
“Can I help you?” A sales girl sidled up, and Dmitri appreciated that she focused on Sonya. “That looks great on you.”
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