Page 70 of The Oligarch's Daughter

As they were coming out of the Office of the City Clerk, he heard a familiar voice speaking loudly in Russian: Arkady and Polina came rushing up to them. Galkin held a huge bouquet of pastel peonies and ranunculus in both his hands. How the two knew they were getting married at City Hall mystified Paul. But Arkady seemed to have his own sources of information. Polina kissed Tatyana on both cheeks, while Arkady handed the flowers to his daughter.

Polina said to Tatyana, eyeing her attire, “Wonderful! I’d never be able to pull off that outfit.”

“Why, thank you,sestrichka,” Tatyana replied. She gave Paul a secret smile.

Polina gave Paul a surprisingly intimate hug, both her arms around his waist, pulling him in tight for a long time. Then she put both hands on his shoulders. “I’m so happy for you,” she said. “Tatyana was lucky to catch you.”

Then Arkady moved in, offered Paul both hands and drew him in for a hug.

“Paul,” he said, “just promise you take care of my little girl.”

“You can count on it,” Paul said.

Arkady smiled and spoke quietly, out of Tatyana’s earshot. “If you ever leave her or cheat on her, I will have you killed. The prenup will be least of your concerns.” Then he laughed, and then Paul pretended to laugh, but somehow he didn’t find it very funny.

44

That night they went for dinner at their favorite unfancy French bistro, just the two of them. The next day, when Paul had returned from work, they went to look at the apartment he had picked out online. It was a nice, roomy “classic six” in a prewar Park Avenue building.

The apartment was in terrible shape. Its owner had been an elderly widow who’d recently died and seemingly had never done any renovations to it ever. But it had great views, beautiful hardwood floors, and fine details like window seats, the original moldings, built-in bookcases, high beamed ceilings, thick walls, and wide hallways. The kitchen was big but equipped with 1950s-era appliances. It was badly in need of a refresh. But the apartment was located in a doorman building with a handsome limestone façade on a quiet, tree-lined street.

While the Realtor was still there, Paul and Tatyana walked across the apartment to the kitchen and huddled.

“Oh, my God, Paul, it’s got such potential, don’t you think?”

“We’re going to have to sink a lot into a serious renovation,” he said. He was pleased by her response, even so. He’d wondered what she would think, given the double-wide town house where she’d grown up.

“Papa can help us with this, you know,” she said.

“I’m sure he can. But I want us to do this on our own.” Meaning, of course, onhisown. “I want to earn it.”

She gave a sweet smile. Her eyes shone. “I love that. But it’s there for the taking.”

He shook his head, smiled. “Do you think it’s more space than we need?”

They put in an offer that night.

*

The next morning, when Paul went to the break room for coffee, he encountered Chad Forrester in quiet conversation with a short guy with spiky black hair. His name, Paul remembered, was Ethan Carswell.

Chad explained, “We’re talking about Larsen.”

“What about him?” Paul said. Jake Larsen, he’d noticed, hadn’t been in the morning meeting. “He get fired?”

Both men immediately looked at each other. Finally, Chad said, “He OD’d.”

“You’re kidding!” Paul said, incredulous. “Overdosed? On—on what?”

“Speedball. Cocaine and heroin and fentanyl.”

“But . . . I mean, I haven’t been here long, but he sure didn’t seem the type.”

Chad and Carswell exchanged a glance.

“What?” Paul asked. “Did I read him wrong? He seemed afraid of his own shadow. Hard to imagine him having such a druggie alter ego.”

“You smoke?” Chad said to Paul.

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