“Someone took out the Bosnians,” Olaf said that Sunday over lunch.
“Oh?” Igor replied with nonchalance. He slathered a piece of bread with butter and took a bite. He wanted this lunch concluded quickly. The less time spent with his father, the better. He had more important things to worry about. Like finding a house outside the city.
“Chechens, too.” Olaf’s tone was pointed.
Igor finally looked at his father. “What are you saying?”
“I’m not saying anything.” Olaf reached for his coffee. “Unless there’s anything you wish to tell me.”
“No. Nothing to tell.”
“The Poles are worried. They think someone is moving through the Eastern European families. They think they’re next.”
“What do you think? Are you worried for us?”
“No. Not at this stage. Prime time to take over the other territories.”
“Agreed. I’ll make that happen.”
“Excellent. We have a sit down with Aleksy Kowal at the end of next week. I want to assure him that should there be any sort of trouble, we will aid them.”
Igor nodded. It never hurt to have to more allies.
“Friday morning,” Olaf went on.
“Friday isn’t good,” Igor said before he could think to stop himself.
“Why not?” Olaf demanded.
“Ah, Maryruth and I have a meeting with a realtor,” he lied quickly.
“Reschedule. This is more important,” Olaf snapped.
“You’re right. I’ll reschedule.”
“No doubt she can’t wait to spend your money.”
Igor blinked. “Not all women want men for their money.”
He snorted.
Igor didn’t remind Olaf that it had been Igor’s mother who’d had come into the marriage with money. Olaf had had nothing. Nothing except a vision and a thirst for power.
“Are we done here?” Igor asked.
“Always so impatient.” Olaf smirked. “I suppose if I had your wife to go home to, I’d feel the same way.”
It took all of Igor’s resources not to punch Olaf in his sneering face. Instead, he got up and walked out of the restaurant. Igor had to remind himself that in a few weeks’ time, he’d never have to look at his father’s face again.
A cloud passed overhead, drenching him in shadow. He shivered. What was in store for him if he went through with this? It had to be done; he believed that. He wanted his father dead. For good, for bad, for personal reasons, for business reasons, Olaf needed to die.
But Igor realized he could not take the coward’s way out. He would be the one to look into Olaf’s face and pull the trigger. He would be law and executioner. When Igor led, he would never ask a soldier to do something he wouldn’t do himself. It would start with his father’s death.
When Igor got home, his mood had gone from sour to black. The apartment was empty. He pulled out his phone to call Maryruth.
“Come up to the roof,” she said when she answered the call. Not bothering to listen to his reply, she hung up.
The sight that greeted him had his jaw dropping in disbelief. The roof was an array of colorful blooms, mostly roses. Maryruth was on her hands and knees, a large straw hat shielding her face.
“Pchelka,” he murmured.
Looking over her shoulder, she smiled. She stood, wiping her dirty hands on her overalls. “Surprise.”
“Surprise, indeed. When did you—how did you—in four days?”
She laughed. “You have your work, I have mine.”
He looked around. She’d transformed the entire mass of concrete into a sanctuary.
“Come here,” she said, holding out her dirt-smudged hand. He clasped it immediately. She led him through the garden, naming different types of flowers he’d never remember. He didn’t look at the blooms—instead he focused on her. Her voice was filled with animation and excitement, her free hand gesturing wildly.
A pair of wicker chairs and a small glass table rested among the flowers. On the table were two glasses and a pitcher of yellow liquid. “Lemonade,” she explained. “Just like Grandma Maryruth used to make. Sit. I’ll pour you a glass.”
He sank down onto a blue cushion and clutched the cup she handed him. He took a sip and then shook his head. It was the perfect blend of tart and sweet.
“How do you do it?” he asked.
“Do what?” she asked, running a hand underneath the brim of her hat.
“Turn my day from shit to magic.”
She smiled. “Drink your lemonade.” She got up and went to a purple bloom. Crouching down, she leaned over to inhale its fragrance. Her eyes closed.
If he’d had a camera, he would’ve snapped a thousand pictures of that moment.
Her eyes opened and she glanced at him. “What do you think of Olga?”
“For?”
“The baby.”
His breath hitched.
“I know—it’s getting ahead of things. There’s still so much time for it to—but I was thinking, if we named her, then maybe the universe would be kind.”
Igor didn’t say anything for a long moment; he couldn’t speak past the lump of emotion in his throat. “Olga.”
Her blue eyes were bright with unshed tears. “For your mother.”
“How do you know it’s a girl?”
“I don’t,” she admitted. “But one can hope, right?”
He laughed. “And if it’s a boy? Have you thought of a name?”
“Pyotr.”
For his great-great grandfather, the original owner of the viola.
He set down the glass of lemonade and got up from his seat. Crouching down next to her, he removed her hat so he could touch her cheeks, feel the sun on her skin. “You would do that? For me?”
Her hand covered his. “It’s no burden, Igor. It’s an honor. Let’s honor them.”
Bowing his head, he pressed his forehead to her shoulder. He wanted to honor her, and everything she stood for.
They stayed on the roof and watched the sun set, their clasped hands resting on her flat belly, the bloom of tomorrow a whispered promise.