SITTING BESIDE ARTUR in the hospital waiting room, Maya fumed. Artur’s calling Victor was entirely predictable. He had always turned to his associate before he turned to her, even back in the Soviet Union before they had come to America to start over. They had been free of Victor for a few glorious years, before Victor had joined them on this side of the Atlantic. For the past twenty years he had plagued her, the albatross around her neck with his knowing glances and the threat of blackmail that still held weight after all of these years.
She imagined her life would be so much better if Victor suddenly died, but she knew that wasn’t true. However reluctantly, however unfairly, she and Victor were now a sort of team, and he was an integral part of their lives. She didn’t have to like it or the fact that her husband maintained an emotional distance that she couldn’t bridge—no matter what she did.
Tonight should have been different. She had expected more reaction from him, more closeness. The child they had raised together had been hurt. This should be a moment when they turned to each other, when their love burned brightly and helped them get through this dark moment.
“Mikhail… and Maya have everything under control,” Victor said, adding insult to injury by making her an afterthought. She had been here before all of them. In Artur’s life. In this emergency room. “Let’s get a cup of coffee from the cafeteria,” Victor suggested. He barely hid his anxiousness to pry Artur away from her, to get him alone and discuss their super secret business as if she were entirely in the dark about what they did, as if she believed her husband’s bloody hands were clean, as if she couldn’t be trusted with their secrets and schemes.
Little did they know she had a thriving business of her own.
“I’ll keep her safe,” Mikhail promised Artur, nodding, not toward Maya, but toward the closed double doors of the emergency room, but he positioned himself by Maya’s shoulder, as if he would care for her, too.
“Come on, Artur. The kid knows what he’s doing,” Victor said.
Artur hesitated for a moment, studied Mikhail, who met his searing scrutiny with impressive equanimity. A weaker man would have flinched, but Mikhail held steady, earning Maya’s grudging respect. It would be easy, she thought, to like him, to be wholly seduced by his good looks and ambition. He worked hard for Artur and, unwittingly, for her.
“Go!” she agreed. “You look like you need a coffee. I’m sure nothing will happen here while you’re gone. Go ahead and discuss your business.” She let the anger bleed through her words and noticed the way Artur recoiled. Did he feel guilty for leaving her here with his lackey for company? Or did he not want to be with her at all?
The niggling insecurity that had plagued her ever since she first met Artur made her body tighten with anxiety that, as usual, he did nothing to alleviate. He let Victor lead him away. The swift glance over his shoulder was not toward her, but toward the doors, toward Inna, and she resented the way their daughter had succeeded where she could not.
Inna had captured and held Artur’s unconditional love. No matter what Inna did or said, he would stand steadfastly by her. For herself, Maya feared he would use any excuse to break their bond, and she wasn’t about to give him one. She loved him.
Everything she had done, she had done out of love for him, to keep him and bind him to her, but she had no illusion that he truly shared her feelings. She survived on a shadow of what could have been, telling herself she was satisfied with the small shafts of sunlight he let shine in her direction. If Artur ever found out what Maya had done, he would cut her out of his life like a malignant tumor. He would stomp her into the ground and never look back. And so, he must never know.
Maya pretended not to notice Artur’s indifference toward her or the freshly scrubbed man at her side who radiated heat and virility. She crossed her legs and picked up the magazine she’d been using earlier as a prop. She pretended to be absorbed with the outdated gossip about celebrities she couldn’t care less about, but her foot bounced with agitation.
Mikhail touched her shoulder, and the light pressure of his fingers sent a jolt of desire through her. Her face heated with embarrassment, and she buried her nose in the magazine. She was old enough to be the man’s mother, but she didn’t pull away the way she knew she should. She never did, and she despised herself for this small weakness, for her inability to resist the temptations that he freely offered her.
Surely, the touch meant nothing to Mikhail, save perhaps a secret “screw you” to her husband. But the attention eased the aching hurt inside her, and she craved him like the worst addiction. She let her muscles relax under the light touch of Mikhail’s hand. Why not take comfort where she could? It was getting difficult to pretend that Artur gave a damn. She was so sick of being ignored.
As soon as Artur and Victor turned down the hall toward the elevators, Mikhail dropped into the seat next to her. She felt almost deprived when he withdrew his hand and let it drape carelessly on the armrest behind them.
He sprawled his legs and leaned back languidly, but his dark eyes were bright and alert. He wasn’t a big or tall man, but he filled the space with his presence, a kind of raw sexuality that was impossible for her to ignore. She shifted uncomfortably, and her mood soured further.
“It’s not right the way he treats you,” Mikhail said. His voice was husky, a rough caress over her skin.
The physical sensations he provoked gave him an unfair advantage, and her body heated with lust and temper. For this, as for many things, she blamed Artur. If he would pay more attention to her, she wouldn’t find herself drawn to a young man the same age as her own son. She wouldn’t be looking in his direction, or remembering the feel of his hands on her, or feeling the sting of knowing he couldn’t possibly want her as much as she wanted him, no matter how prettily he might whisper in her ear.
“You’re right,” she said curtly and turned the page.
“Why do you put up with it?” Mikhail asked. When she again turned the page of the magazine and didn’t answer, he shifted toward her and pulled the pages away from her face. “You’re a beautiful woman,” he said. “Artur should feel lucky to have you.” He touched his palm to her jaw, leaned close as if preparing to kiss her. “Tell me, Maya. Why do you put up with him?”
His breath tickled her lips, and she wanted so badly for him to kiss her that she thought she was losing her mind. But she wouldn’t debase herself by falling too swiftly into the well of his charm. She smiled condescendingly at him. “We all make our deals with the devil.” She made herself sound worldly and bored. “Why do you put up with the way he treats you?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Mikhail began to protest.
He wasn’t nearly the accomplished liar that she was. This deception, though trivial, annoyed her. He shouldn’t think he could keep any secrets from her now that they were having an affair.
“I’m going to see if there’s any new information on Inna,” she said and left him alone. She felt the smallest tick of satisfaction that his gaze lingered on her rather than returning immediately to the emergency room doors.
She had to wait in a short line at the nurse’s station, while the woman competently triaged the newest arrival, a squat man with a squished nose covered with dried blood. The nose wasn’t the worst of his problems, though. He cradled his arm, likely broken. He wore a track suit and gold chains and looked the part of the proverbial tough guy, but he howled like a baby when the nurse tried to examine his lame arm.
Maya suppressed her mirth. Men thought they were the stronger sex—tougher, superior. The men in her life constantly overestimated themselves and underestimated her—if they gave her any thought at all. They might never realize their mistake, but she would make them all regret it.
She waited patiently for the nurse. Patience, she knew, was one of her greatest assets. While Artur and Victor and her father were constantly in motion, constantly doing and running and evading, she had learned to wait quietly, to watch and to listen, to find the openings and opportunities to move stealthily and pilfer what she wanted. Like Mikhail’s loyalty and affection.
The nurse returned to the desk, and Maya asked after Inna. “She’s resting, and she’s under observation,” the nurse reported and couldn’t or wouldn’t share more.
“I’m so worried about her,” Maya said and bit her lip. “My baby.” The small show of anxiety won her sympathy.
The plump, kindly nurse patted her hand. “I’ll let you know as soon as there’s anything I can report,” she said.
“Has she asked for me? She has to want her mother at a time like this,” Maya said.
The nurse leaned closer, confided, “She had a hard time when she first came in, but she’s sleeping now. I’m sure she’ll ask for you when she wakes up.”
Maya nodded, reassured, then asked. “Do you think they’ll keep her for a while? She has medication that she takes.” She lowered her voice as if imparting a secret of her own. “You know, for mental problems. She’s so fragile. And now she’s been through this horrible ordeal. I’m afraid of what’s going to happen to her.”
“I’ll let the doctor know,” the nurse said, taking down the information about Inna’s medication. Maya made the appropriate expressions of gratitude and returned to Mikhail.
“What’s the news?” he asked as his blue eyes scanned the waiting area.
“No news. She’s sleeping. My guess is we won’t get to see her until the morning.”
“Do you think she’ll remember anything that happened?” Mikhail asked.
“Will it matter if she does or doesn’t?” Maya said. “What’s done is done.”
Mikhail took a breath as if to respond and then silenced himself. He straightened, and his face darkened perceptibly, as he focused on someone behind Maya.
She turned to see Vlad, Artur’s new lackey. The two men, close in age, were rivals for Artur’s good graces, or at least Mikhail felt that way. Vlad’s blunt features were drawn in concentration. His leather jacket was draped over his right arm, hiding his hand, as if concealing a weapon, but she doubted even Artur’s new head of security could get his guns into Coney Island Hospital. Still, he had an air of lethal danger. His flinty eyes flicked quickly over the waiting room before returning to her and Mikhail. He moved swiftly, with purpose and surprising grace.
“Where’s Artur?” Vlad asked, all business. Mikhail rose to his feet before answering.
“Taking a much-needed break,” Mikhail said. “Where the hell have you been?”
Vlad leaned toward Mikhail, perhaps trying to intimidate him with his height. His voice was a gravelly rumble that reminded her of a growl. “Chasing down leads.”
Unflinching, Mikhail crossed his arms. “On what?”
“On who might have wanted the Georgian dead,” Vlad said. He crossed his arms now, too, a sign he wouldn’t divulge anything more. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows to reveal impressive forearms that flexed with his movements. His jacket still concealed his right hand.
“Then you were wasting your time,” Maya said and physically inserted herself before Mikhail foolishly provoked Vlad. He was still an unknown quantity, and Maya’s own philosophy was to approach with caution until she learned more. Both men blinked at her as if surprised by her intrusion on their battle of wills.
“Inna killed him. Right?” she said. “That’s what Artur said.”
“That’s what someone wants us all to think,” Vlad said, and she noted with approval that he had curbed the aggression in his voice and stance to address her.
“And what do you think?” Maya asked.
“I think I need to talk to Artur,” Vlad said.
“She’s my daughter, too. I have a right to know what happened. And why.”
His face softened, and the kindness there surprised Maya, raising him in her regard. “You do,” he agreed. “And that’s exactly what I’m trying to find out.”
“He’s in the cafeteria with Victor,” Maya said. Vlad nodded in thanks, turned abruptly on his heel, and jogged away. He was unquestionably Artur’s man.
“I hate that guy,” Mikhail muttered under his breath.
“Do you? Why?” Maya asked, although she already recognized the signs of jealousy. She placed her hand on Mikhail’s arm. She expected him to pull away or take back his words. Instead, he leaned closer, confided in her. Perhaps there was more affinity between them than she had credited.
“I was Artur’s right-hand man,” Mikhail said. “I used to get the key assignments, have a seat at the table, have access to all of the important information. And then Vlad came along. There was no warning. Artur didn’t even make Vlad prove himself. He just brought him in as my replacement.”
Sympathy pulled Maya closer to Mikhail. She had felt the scarring burn of betrayal, the internal poison of her own jealousy. Even though she had won Artur back, she had lost him irrevocably to another woman. As if that weren’t hurt enough, the other woman was gone, but Maya was still second in Artur’s affections, which he reserved entirely for Inna.
Daringly, she placed both of her hands on Mikhail’s chest. She caressed her palm over his pecks, taut and firm under his button-down shirt. Emboldened when he neither laughed nor pulled away, she closed the small gap between them. “I know how that feels,” she said. “And I know how to get revenge.”
She bunched her hands in his shirt and pulled him toward her. His arms came around her in implied welcome, and the small spark from his embrace filled an empty space inside her, not enough to slake the gnawing hunger, but enough to abate it. If she could have more, then maybe she could forget the pain she constantly carried. She leaned into him, needing his kiss.
Their lips met for the briefest moment. Mikhail cast a wild glance around the waiting room and released her.
He sat down, as if feeling unsteady on his feet, and pulled her into the chair beside him. He didn’t let go of her hand as he tilted his head toward hers. “Oh, Maya,” he said. “If Artur finds out what we’re doing, he’ll kill me.”
“Let’s make sure he never finds out,” she said.
“He might suspect,” Mikhail said, but she silenced any further worry or protest with a finger to his lips.
“I know my husband. If he knew, you wouldn’t be here right now standing watch over Inna and me,” she said. Mikhail visibly relaxed. She ran the pad of her finger over his bottom lip, so full and ripe she wanted to take a little nibble. “Trust me,” she said.
His blue eyes met hers, full of promise and a silent agreement.