After leaving Sasha and Vlad, Igor took a cab to his father’s penthouse apartment on the Upper East Side. After the death of Igor’s mother, Olaf had moved from Brooklyn to the UES. Igor hated the area. Old money reigned, and Igor never understood why his father would choose to live among those that had done nothing to deserve their wealth, only inherited it.
Igor preferred Battery Park, and though he owned his apartment, he’d earned it. He was in line to lead the Russian mob, but he’d spent years working as nothing more than a lowly foot soldier, a minion. Igor had secured his spot as Olaf’s second.
He greeted his father’s doorman and then headed toward the elevators but was stopped. Apparently, Igor had to be announced now. He used to be able to come and go as he pleased.
Another one of Olaf’s moves to prove who was in power. Not for long. Igor waited thirty minutes before his father deigned to let him up.
When he walked into his father’s penthouse, he was immediately greeted by the nude painting of Maryruth. It was the first thing guests saw upon arrival.
A wave of possessive jealousy tore through him. He’d made his peace with Maryruth’s past, including the time she was with Agoston Boros, but this—this he would not make peace with.
His father sat on the couch, flipping through the newspaper, pretending he didn’t derive a sick satisfaction from his son’s torment.
Igor locked that shit down and quickly.
“Gorgeous painting,” Igor remarked blandly, taking a moment to really study it. Installed behind museum glass, there was no glare. The sunlight filtering through the windows highlighted the bright colors and curves of Maryruth’s body.
It belonged in an exhibit. It was meant to be fawned over. Not held as some power play.
Olaf looked up at the painting, a slight smirk skipping about his lips. “I think so. Well worth the price.”
He wasn’t talking about money and Igor knew it.
“How much to buy it from you?” Igor asked even though he knew his father would never part with it. Not while he was alive.
“It’s not for sale.”
“Shame,” Igor said as he sat on the opposite couch from his father. “It would’ve made the perfect wedding gift to Maryruth.”
Olaf frowned. “Wedding gift? You’re getting married?”
Igor smiled and held up his left hand. “Married. Just this past weekend.” It was Igor’s turn to feel a glimmer of satisfaction when he heard Olaf’s jaw clench and his teeth grind.
“What?” Igor asked, pretending to flick a piece of lint off of his gray suit pants. “You’re not going to offer me your felicitations?”
“You married her,” Olaf stated through a tight throat. “Why? Just to piss me off?”
Igor laughed. “That was just a byproduct.”
Olaf scoffed. “You think you love her.”
Igor’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know about love?”
“You want to talk about her.” He sneered.
“You never want to talk about her.”
“She’s dead. What’s there to talk about?”
Igor shook his head. “God, I pity you.”
“Don’t. I don’t need your pity.” He waved his hand, gesturing to the expansive living room of the Upper East Side apartment. There was nothing subtle about garish opulence. “Look what I have built.”
How many had to die so you could dine on caviar and champagne? How many more will die before your reign comes to an end? Igor didn’t ask. His father had always been delusional.
The door to the apartment opened. Cloying perfume permeated the air. The rustle of designer tissue paper in shopping bags alerted Igor to his father’s mistress. Today she wore a low-cut white shirt. He wasn’t even offended, just sad for her.
“Igor!” she exclaimed with false cheer, setting her acquisitions down in the corner for the housekeeper to tend to. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“He was just leaving,” Olaf stated.
Igor rose and stared his father in the eye. “You will accept her.”
The tacit threat hung in the air. At this stage, neither man wanted to test the will of the other.
Olaf nodded once.
Igor passed Sonya, holding his breath as he went.
The scents in his home differed greatly from his father’s house. He closed his eyes and leaned against the door, inhaling the aroma of clean air wafting through the open windows. He’d always loved summer in New York. Now, more so than ever.
Maryruth sat at the kitchen table, blond head bent over a stack of paperwork. Ear buds were jammed into her ears and plugged into an iPod that rested next to her. She set down the pen and rubbed her wrist. Turning, she started when she saw him standing quietly behind her. She yanked out her ear buds and glared at him.
“What the hell? You scared me.” She pressed a hand to her heart. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Sorry,” he said, not making a move toward her. He was afraid if he went to her, he’d claim her mouth, her body. Use her to unleash all his anger at his father onto her—and she didn’t deserve that. She’d take it because she loved him.
He needed to find a way to calm his own beast.
She cocked her head to one side. “You okay?”
He thought about it a moment and then shook his head.
She patted the chair next to her. “Tell me.”
Igor didn’t hesitate. The chair scraped across the floor as he pulled it out and sat. His hand reaching out to gently squeeze her thigh.
“Hi,” he whispered, leaning in.
Her hand came up to stroke his cheek as she leaned in to kiss him. Sunlight caught the magnificent diamond on her finger, reminding him of everything that truly mattered.
“Met with my father,” he stated gruffly when his lips reluctantly left hers.
“Ah. Don’t tell me what he said.”
“He said—”
“No, I’m serious.” Her eyes were open, guileless. “I don’t want to know because I don’t care.” She gestured to the stack of papers. “Look what I’m doing.”
A small smile appeared on his lips when he realized what she was taking care of.
“Fucking bureaucracy,” she muttered with an eye roll. “Do you know how much effort and time it takes to legally change your name?”
“Perhaps then you’ll never threaten to divorce me,” he teased. “Paperwork is a nightmare.”
She laughed. “I don’t plan on divorce.”
“No?” he asked quietly.
Maryruth stood and picked up her empty coffee mug. Bending over, she kissed him on the lips. “No. Not at this time. Get back to me at the seven-year mark. I hear it itches.”
They laughed together. It was a balm to Igor’s heart. He was back to pitying his father.
“Tea?” she asked, holding the silver teakettle under the faucet.
“Please.” His eyes roved over the stack of papers on top of her sketchbook. Just enough of the corner peeked out to intrigue him.
“Go ahead,” she said.
It was his turn to start. “You don’t mind?”
She leaned against the counter and crossed her ankles. “No. I don’t mind.”
He pulled out the sketchbook to reveal the drawing on the page. “It looks like a garden. A rose garden.”
“It is. It’s my vision for the roof. It’s a great space up there. But there’s nothing except a few chairs and a great view. I thought a rooftop garden would be nice.”
Igor looked at her, really looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time. “I love you. Did you know that?”
She smiled in happiness. “I’m glad. Because you,” she uncrossed her ankles and sauntered to him, “Igor Dolinsky, are stuck with me. Forever.”
He pulled her onto his lap and pressed his head to her heart. “It’s because you hate paperwork, right? That’s the only reason?”
Igor felt a rumble against his ear.
“Yes.”
“Glad we have that established.”
“Igor?”
“Hmmm?”
She gently tugged on his hair to get him to look at her. “I love you, too. Forget the tea. Take me to bed.”