7
Dmitry
The townhome felt almost too quiet after the events of the last few months. There was no gunfire, no yelling and screaming, not even another presence besides Manya and I. It looked no different than it had the day we left for Russia, still immaculately clean thanks to my housekeeper, without any of the lived-in touches it had started to acquire from Manya having stayed there.
Everything would need to be packed. The decorations and my personal items, what was left of what Manya had brought, all of my personal cookware . . .
That was another day’s problem though.
The townhome was like a mirror in which to look at how far we had come. It was the home that I’d been forced to move into upon finding out about the engagement. The home that Manya and I had danced around one another for a week, unable to move past the circumstances of our marriage. It was the home I had first had her in, and it would be the home where we spent my first nights as Pakhan.
Though that was yet to be official.
Now, there would be so many more firsts.
Manya had asked to come home, and so we had, but I wondered if she knew that this would only be our home for a temporary time now, that this would soon be just another place that we left our mark on and abandoned. It wasn’t a home fit for a Pakhan, and it had never truly been mine anyways. It was decorated with the gold and marble my father preferred, and the house staff he had also chosen.
The shower upstairs had been turned off a half hour before. The sound of Manya moving around was now all that I listened to as I wandered listlessly through the bottom floor, my phone left blinking on the kitchen counter. I had handled my business for the night; I had taken care of what was necessary. I had even redressed those knife wounds in my torso with as much finesse as I was able to.
My slacks hung loosely about my hips, my torso uncovered save for the bandaging that I had found, and each barefoot step against hard floor seemed to echo through the empty space.
We would have rugs in our next home—plush and sound absorbent.
I walked up the stairs to the sound of brushing hair, stopping to lean against the open bedroom doorway. Manya faced away from me. She was brushing that long, silver-blonde hair of hers, her black eyes glittering in her reflection in the mirror. She met my gaze in the glass, her brush strokes slowing until she finally lowered the brush onto the vanity in front of her.
“How long will we be staying here?”
She sounded almost as if she were afraid to ask.
With a tilt of my head I shrugged. “A few days, a few weeks, it depends on how long it takes to pack.”
Confusion filtered through her expression. “Pack? Everything? Are we not going to another safe house? Why would we need to pack?”
“Nyet . . . the safe houses are done. We pack to move, whenever we find the right house. Shura is making a list for us to look at, properties available to buy and those already in our possession. It’s up to you, although I ask that when you decorate you avoid marble, if possible.”
She turned around to face me slowly, her eyebrows climbing her forehead. “So, we are not in hiding any longer? Just like that? It’s over.”
“Da.”
She didn’t look convinced by my one-word assurance. “And you’re sure? There won’t be any flying bullets tonight, starting it all over again?”
“The problems have been dealt with. Those who were causing issue are now either dead or disbanded, your father is taken care of, mine is dead.” I listed the facts impersonally, my shoulder pressing harder into the door jamb to hold myself in place.
“And you are Pakhan now?”
“Da?”
“When are you named as such?”
She ran down the list of questions as if it were a checklist, her expression shuttered and her eyes so deep that any emotion that might have resided within them was unfathomable. It was as if she were still stuck in fight or flight, her body poised on that precipice and unable to come down.
“Tomorrow. There will be a ceremony tomorrow. Shura will be named my personal byki, maybe my second in command. I will appoint all the people, we will celebrate with drink and food, and then we will go home to Russia in order to spread the news there as well.” I watched her carefully with each new bit of information, checking for any argument or discomfort. But, if anything, my words seemed to soothe her somewhat.
She nodded, breaking my gaze to look down to the floor.
“And I am your wife?” The words were low, the question so hesitant that it almost came out stilted. It took me by enough surprise that I couldn’t even think of an answer right away.
Instead, I pushed off of the doorframe, crossed the expanse of the room, and lifted her face to mine with my fingers on the round of her chin. “Are you my wife?” I asked her back, the challenge in the words clear.