Andronik's ointment works wonders. By Friday, Gromov is moving around the house quite well, even managing to limp slowly to the shower on his own. After his brazen attempt to have me spend another night in his room, I refuse to help him.

Even though he asked me. Not once, but three times. But I am a mountain. A rock. Granite.

Every night, I proudly retreat to my parents' room, though I leave the doors open.

The workers come in the morning, and until they leave, Mark stays put in my former room, which is now temporarily his. And as twilight descends upon the land, we go out to dine on the terrace.

On the second day of his stay at our house, Gromov forced me to go to the village and buy him a new phone with a SIM card. Then, a real stir awaited us from what all the news channels were broadcasting.

We read, moved, that "the famous race car driver Mark Gromov died in a car accident on a winding mountain road. According to preliminary data, the cause of the accident was loss of control of the vehicle. His brother, Martin Gromov, was likely thrown into the sea as a result of the strong impact. Until the body is found, Martin Gromov has been declared missing. The investigation continues..."

Do you understand? Martin and not Mark. And I don't understand either. There's no mention of Mark.

"They must know, they must," he couldn't calm down all day, or could it be that his parents haven't arrived yet?

"It's a typo, Mark," I assure him, "don't you know the journalists? They probably got confused, it's no wonder the police asked me who was driving."

He accepts and then irritably flips through the news again. He spends the whole day in bed, silently staring at the ceiling. And the next morning, he asks for the laptop and spends time searching, writing, and finding out something.

During dinner, I ask him about it. Today we have a juicy grilled chicken breast with vegetables and a salad. Mark burned himself while removing the grill from the charcoal, and I made a bandage using the same magic ointment from Andronik.

"I can't access my account on any of the messengers," Gromov explains to me, "and I don't remember the phone numbers by heart."

"Do you think they're tracking you?"

"The accounts? For sure. Fortunately, I periodically backed up the base to the cloud. I downloaded from there, not everything, of course, but I got the basics I needed."

"Have you contacted anyone yet?" I try not to show my deep interest in the topic.

"Yes," nods Mark, and I barely contain a bitter sigh.

It means he'll be leaving soon. It was to be expected, no one thought Mark Gromov would suddenly decide to settle in the Angelis' home forever.

"With your parents?"

"No," says Gromov, "I don't want to involve them in this yet. It could be dangerous."

"And with whom then?"

"There's a man from my grandfather's security service. He's trustworthy. I trust that he is..."

"And why not from your own security system?" I blink in surprise.

"Because our technicians concluded that the car was in good condition," Gromov responds after a moment of silence. "And that means that somewhere among them is the weakest link in this entire chain."

"And if there's a weakest link, there must also be a highest link."

Absolutely. The brakes were tampered with deliberately, Karo. And they didn't act on their own, someone directed them.

Does that mean it's someone close to his family?

"You have no idea how close," Mark furrows his beautifully arched eyebrows, and I mentally groan with pleasure. The living Gromov is indescribably better than the glossy one!

His paper copy drives Mark himself crazy.

"Little one, take that off the wall, how many times do I have to ask you?" he says to me in an annoyed tone every time I enter the room. And he points to the poster.

"I won't do it," I reply, "and don't ask me to." "Why?" I ask.

"This is my friend," he replies.

"And what am I, then? Am I not your friend?" His gaze drifts to my legs in such a "friendly" manner that I can barely hold back my laughter. There's a certain emphasis on "friendly," though it's only implied.

But I don't laugh.

"You'll leave," I say, looking straight into Gromov's eyes, "and he will stay with me."

Mark falls silent, his gaze shifting away first. It's a retreat, but only until next time.

I don’t mention the significant disadvantage of Paper Gromov: it doesn't affect me the same way the living Mark does.

I used to think the smile on the poster was thrilling. But only upon seeing it in real life did I realize how far I was from truly understanding that word.

Now, it doesn't just thrill me. Inside, it washes over me like a warm wave, crashing into my head, and my heart plunges into a cold abyss. Goosebumps spread across my skin, every hair standing on end.

And that's just from a smile, Mark Gromov's living smile. And when he touches me, something the poster could never even dream of happens.

I'm struck by ball lightning, electrified, turned into a high-voltage wire carrying tens of thousands of volts.

That's what happens to me. I don't think I need to clarify that I've gone mad for Mark. And only now do I understand how easy and simple it was to love his portrait. And how infernal it is to love the living Gromov. Because hiding it becomes harder every time.

"Mark, why do the news say you lost control of the car?" I muster the courage to ask the question that's been on my mind for a while. "Why don't they mention the faulty brakes?"

He frowns again, tracing his finger along the rim of his cup.

"I don't know, Karo. The investigation was supposed to determine all the circumstances of the accident. But for someone, it's important that the real reason remains hidden."

His gloom is contagious. Mark realizes this and reaches across the table, lifting my chin.

Bang! This time it's just ball lightning.

"Listen, little one," he says, looking into my eyes, "you gave me your word that you wouldn't get involved and wouldn't be sad."

"I didn't give you my word," I say, slightly uncomfortable as Mark presses my cheeks, "you forced me."

He smiles, and again, it's not like the one on the poster. His smile warms me so much that I want to bask in it, like in the sun's rays. To undress and surrender, or better yet, let Mark do it...

Oh no, what am I thinking again? These aren't thoughts; they're racing cars on a track. Blink, and they're gone!

"Karo, what are you thinking about?" I hear his murmuring voice through the veil of my feverish thoughts. I open my eyes to see his hand, palm up, in front of me. "Will you dance with me?"

"Dance? You want to dance with me?" I ask cautiously. Maybe I misheard. An illusion? A figment of my imagination?

"Why are you surprised?" Mark seems genuinely puzzled. "You told me you danced. Or were you lying?"

"Why would I lie?" I retort, slightly offended. "I'm worried about your leg. I might have to carry you to Uncle Andronik's in the middle of the night."

"Don't worry," his voice now a whisper near my neck, sending shivers down my spine, "you won't have to. Don't be afraid, little one, come here."

I don't know what's happening to me. Mark's words are not unusual, all familiar and well-known. But it's either the tone in which he speaks them, or the slight touches of his lips on my neck that make my heart beat faster. My breath loses rhythm, air stuck in my lungs.

I place my hand in his open one, feeling that it's not just my hand I'm placing there, but my heart.