“I’m proud of you, son,” Olaf said.
Igor raised an eyebrow but otherwise didn’t move from his spot on the sauna bench. Mostly because he was still a colorful array of bruises. His eyes were black, but no longer puffy. His nose was on the mend.
“You handled yourself like a true Dolinsky and took out that Ukrainian giant like it was nothing,” Olaf spouted on. “The Drugovs are impressed and still willing to do business with us. Life is good.”
Igor remained silent, letting his father’s rhetoric blow past him. He wished he didn’t feel a small ounce of satisfaction for winning his father’s approval. It was something that had always been lacking during Igor’s childhood.
“Who’s the woman?” Olaf asked with an unusual measure of calm interest.
It didn’t fool Igor for a second. “Who would you like her to be?”
“Someone of no importance.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
Father and son stared at one another until Olaf finally smiled. “She’s the reason you risked my wrath. Why you entered The Arena.”
“I would shrug, but it would hurt my ribs,” Igor quipped.
“You will bring her to my birthday party next week.”
Igor pretended to think about it. “Da.”
Olaf smiled and slapped his knees before rising. “And on that note, I have a meeting I need to get to.” On his way out of the sauna, Olaf stopped in front of Igor. In a rare show of affection, Olaf placed his hand on Igor’s shoulder. He didn’t say anything, just let his hand linger there before leaving.
Something was brewing. Igor didn’t trust Olaf for a moment, and the unusual show of pride and demonstrative display didn’t fool him. He needed eyes on his father. The only person he trusted to do that was Sasha.
Igor thought about getting up, but his body refused to move, so instead, he stayed where he was and closed his eyes.
“I could kill you, you know,” came an accented voice.
Igor’s eyes flew open. He hadn’t even heard the sound of the door. Vlad Yevtukh stood over him, his own body a smattering of bruises. His lip was split, and his forehead had a tiny row of stitches, making him look like a Ukrainian Frankenstein.
“So do it and be done with it. At least then I can get back to taking a nap,” Igor remarked dryly.
Vlad’s dark eyes twinkled, but the man didn’t smile. “No. I won’t kill you. Not today.”
“Glad to hear it. I’m actually pretty fond of living.”
At that, Vlad did crack a smile—wincing when he realized it pulled his lips taut. “May I sit?”
“Please.” Igor gestured to the bench across from him.
Vlad took a seat and stretched out his long, muscular legs. “I was undefeated in The Arena. Before we sparred. It made me reevaluate some things…” Vlad clenched and unclenched his left hand. The knuckles were scratched and swollen, but intact.
“I want to be your right-hand man.”
“I already have a right-hand man.”
“Your left, then. I don’t give my allegiance. It has to be won. It would be an honor to serve you. In any way I can.”
“Why?” Igor asked. “Don’t you have your own interests? Your own people?”
“My people are bloodthirsty and cutthroat. They’re too busy backstabbing one another to do anything else. I want to belong. To an empire. One of my choosing.”
“And you’ve chosen mine.”
“Not yours. Yet,” Vlad pointed out.
“You speak Russian?”
Vlad nodded.
“I don’t trust you,” Igor stated.
“I know. I can prove myself.”
“How?”
“Do you need something handled? Discreetly?” Vlad’s dark gaze appeared to see what Igor wouldn’t say.
He stood. “Find me when you know you can trust me.”
Igor opened the door to the apartment and was greeted by unfamiliar sounds and smells.
“Hello?” he called out, dropping his gym bag to the ground and wincing. He really should’ve considered taping his ribs.
“In the kitchen!” Maryruth yelled back.
He found her at the stove, singing off-key to a Tom Petty song, looking adorable in her leggings and one of his black cashmere sweaters. Three days ago, she’d gone to Long Island to pack up her clothes and other personal belongings. He liked that she chose to wear his clothes even though she had access to her own.
“This is new,” Igor said, strolling towards her and placing his hand on her hip. He brushed his lips across hers before leaning over to sniff the contents of a large pot.
“What’s new? Someone other than your housekeeper cooking in your kitchen?”
“I cook, if you remember.” He playfully swatted her behind. “What are you making?”
“Chicken soup.”
“Why?”
She looked at him and rolled her eyes. “Because it’s what you feed people when they’re sick.”
“I’m not sick. I’m injured. Different.”
“Whatever, chicken soup is good no matter what. Besides, I add something special to my soup.”
“What?”
“Dumplings. Sit. It’s almost ready.” She waved him over to the table while she ladled out a bowlful of soup. She set it down in front of him. “Might need some salt.”
“I’ll taste it first,” he murmured, his eyes following her movements around the kitchen.
With her hand on the door to the refrigerator, she stopped. “What? Is the soup okay?”
He breathed in the aromatic steam of her chicken soup but didn’t reach for his spoon. “I haven’t tasted it yet.”
“You’re looking at me funny.”
Igor picked up his utensil, rubbing his thumb along the handle. “I used to revel in the silence of an empty apartment. And now…”
“And now?”
He pointedly looked at her. “Now this apartment feels like a home.”
She froze like a woodland creature about to be ensnared by a hunter. Finally, she moved. “When I lived with Auggie,” she said softly. “We didn’t spend that much time together—outside of when he was painting me. You saw the house.” She looked at him for confirmation. He nodded. “We had separate wings. And I spent a lot of time cooking for a man who was too caught up in his art to leave his studio and eat a meal with me.”
She sighed. “I like—that we eat together.”
He smiled crookedly. He liked more than that.