Igor told Vlad what he wanted. He didn’t give him details about the hows and whys. If Vlad agreed, Igor wouldn’t deign to tell him how to do it. He had a pretty good idea of how Vlad would handle it—though the man was clearly skilled in the art of hand-to-hand combat, Sasha’s digging into Vlad’s background revealed that he was once a Ukrainian sniper.
A wanted Ukrainian sniper.
“I do this, then you trust me, yes?” Vlad finally asked.
“If this goes off without a hitch, then I’ll trust you. You’ll become one of mine.”
Vlad’s dark eyes swam with an emotion Igor couldn’t identify. It made him uncomfortable. It made him think he wasn’t really the one calling the shots, but it was Vlad pulling the hidden strings.
“All right,” Vlad agreed. “I’ll do it. Give me three days.”
Vlad rose from his chair at the table and stalked from the empty Italian restaurant. It was the only place Igor trusted to do business—the Italians—the Marinos—weren’t in his father’s pocket, and the rotund, gray-haired matriarch had a soft spot for him. When her youngest son met Igor in grade school, Ori had brought Igor home to meet his family. Mama Marino had taken an instant liking to the quiet, respectful, motherless boy. The Italian mother’s heart was open to any child in need.
“Here’s a cannoli, on the house,” Mama Marino said, placing the custard filled pastry shell in front of him.
“Thank you, Mama,” Igor said, bringing her hand to his lips and giving it a kiss.
Mama Marino smiled and playfully swatted his shoulder. “You are such a flirt. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were Italian.”
Igor laughed.
“Are you still single? Gisella still talks about you.”
“Gisella is married with three children,” Igor pointed out with a laugh.
“Still, my daughter always had a soft spot for you.”
“Like all the Marinos,” Igor quipped. “You were all so good to me back then.”
She gestured to the untouched cannoli. “We’re good to you now. Where’s your blond shadow? I haven’t seen him in a while.”
“Sasha.” Igor smiled and cut a bite of cannoli. “He sends his love.”
Mama Marino blew out a puff of air. “That one is almost as charming as you.”
“I’ll tell him you think so.” He ate the rest of his cannoli under Mama Marino’s watchful eye. Whatever the woman put in front of him, he ate, even if he was full. To leave anything on the plate was an insult.
“Who is she?” Mama Marino asked, scooping up the empty plate the moment Igor set down his fork.
“She?”
“Don’t play dumb. I know there’s a woman.”
Igor smiled but continued to say nothing.
“She is special.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes,” Igor said.
“Good. You deserve happiness. You’re such a sweet boy.” She patted his cheek and then walked back into the kitchen.
Sweet boy, he thought with wry humor. He’d killed and maimed, and he just asked a Ukrainian sniper to kill the head of the Ukrainian mob to prove his loyalty.
His mother would’ve been so proud of him. The bitter thought came from deep within, but it was too late to change, too late to forge another path.
Maryruth would disagree with him. She believed people could change.
Would she come to resent him? One day down the line, would she decide that she couldn’t be with a crime lord? Would she leave him?
Would he leave this life for her, if she asked?
He pondered those thoughts as he walked out into the sunny late-spring day.
She knew who he was, accepted him. Now. They were new and exciting, their banter charged with lust and young intimacy. But what happened when time marched on, the lust faded to a glowing ember, and they were left with trust, loyalty, and a life built together? A life built on his crimes.
He thought of his mother—what would’ve happened if she had lived? Would she have taken him away from Olaf’s strangling presence? Would Igor have attended Juilliard and now be a violist?
So many wasted dreams.
Arriving home, he came into the apartment to Maryruth sitting on the floor, a pencil in hand. She looked up at him and smiled.
But to wish for a different past would mean a different future. A future that didn’t include that smile.
“What are you working on?” he asked, coming over and giving her a kiss hello.
She shut what looked like a sketchbook. “Nothing.” She scooped it up and held it to her chest.
“Come on, show it to me,” Igor begged.
“No.”
“Why not? Is it embarrassing?”
“Sort of.” Her eyes dropped to the floor, her arms tightening around the sketchbook.
“I won’t laugh,” he promised.
Reluctantly, she released her hold on the sketchbook and handed it to him. The entire book was blank except for the last page.
“Why did you start at the back?” he asked.
“Because I hope to get better. I don’t want to show off my learning mistakes.”
“You drew this?”
She nodded.
“From your imagination or were you looking at something.”
“Imagination.”
It was only the start of a simple sketch, a gnarled tree devoid of leaves. She’d begun to tackle shading, and even though it was amateur, the promise of talent lingered on the page.
“Where did you learn to sketch?”
Maryruth bit her lip. “Auggie was teaching me.”
“Why would you think this is embarrassing?” Igor asked.
She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“You signed up for some college courses, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Any of them in art?”
Her shoulders slumped. “All of them are in art. Is that stupid? Fanciful? Hopeful?”
“It’s whatever you want it to be.” He handed her back the sketchbook. “It’s good.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“No. Since when have you known me to lie?”
She gave him a look and he laughed.
“Okay, I see your point. But I’m not lying about this. Does your craft need some work? Yes. But you’ll get there. I have faith in you.”
Her smile was slow, tentative. “You do?”
“Yes.”
He had a sudden urge to play his viola, to create a piece that would mean something to her. To both of them.