Page 95 of Jewel of the Assassin
“Oh?” She lifts a brow.
I briefly explain the circumstances surrounding the car crash, including Valentina waking with no memory. And how the entire manor staff, as well as Sasha, have all agreed to play the farce.
At first, she says nothing. Simply appraises me in the sharp, piercing way I inherited. Nothing like my father and his reckless egotism.
After a heavy heartbeat or two, Mamma finally says, “I have some questions.”
“Ask me anythi?—”
“Not for you.” She stiffens, lifting her voice. “Valentina will give me all the answers I require.”
She turns without another word, disappearing from the chapel. I don’t stop her. I know better than to ask what her plans are. My mother will say her piece one way or another. And if a storm should come because of it, I will do whatever it takes to hold onto my wife in the fallout, through better or worse.
A half-hour later,the three of us are sitting in the salon, helping ourselves to tea, decaf coffee, and some light snacks.
My wife is a vision as usual. After her shower, Valentina wove her hair into a simple side braid, donned a simple but elegant black dress with long sleeves and a tasteful hem at the knees with tights and black ballet flats.
I selected something equally as casual with my slate gray sweater and slightly stressed black jeans with suede shoes.
“You know,moya devochka,” My mother addresses Valentina with an edge of cunning, “Roman has always been… let us sayprecisein his affections. And his wrath. I remember when he was twelve, a boy at his school—twice his size—liked to shove smaller children down the stairs for sport. Roman never confronted him. Not once. He just watched. Quiet. Too quiet.”
My wife’s eyes flick to mine as she lifts her teacup to her supple mouth, looking up at me from beyond her long lashes. “Is that so?”
“One morning, the school called me,” Mamma goes on. “They found the boy in the ravine behind the academy, neck-deep in a pit of vipers. Real ones. We were hours from the nearest zoo, and suddenly there were vipers? He was alive, but delirious, and his parents pulled him out of school. Roman? He just camehome, took off his coat, and asked what was for dinner. Not a scratch on him.”
After a sip, Valentina pauses, meeting my mother’s eyes, her lips parted, expression eager for more. She’s hanging on Mamma’s every word.
Plucking an olive from the charcuterie tray and popping it in her mouth, she adds, “He never confessed. Not to me. But I found a map in his desk, hand-drawn, with a list of reptile breeders and a delivery route. Yes, at twelve, my son was not born a storm—he studied how to become one. With honor. With calculation. And God help the ones who deserve him.”
Valentina presses her lips into a smile. They share a secret exchange, one where my wife practically screams, “I deserve him”. She does. And I deserve her with equal measure—because I studied her with honor, with calculation, and the power of a thousand storms, claiming her as the eye.
“Do you have any other stories of Roman?” Valentina wonders, her voice sparkling.
Mamma taps her lips, sliding them into a grin. “Roman never liked injustice. But he didn’t like praise, either. He once saw a boy slap a girl on the school bus, hard enough to make her bleed. The next morning, that same boy showed up with his arm broken in three places. When the nurse asked what happened, the boy said he had fallen down the stairs. One problem. He lived in a one-level ranch. Moreover, there were no bruises on his legs. No scratches. Just a shattered arm and a story no one believed. Roman? He looked bored when they announced it at school. Came home that night and set the table without a word.”
Valentina surveys me, her fingers tight and toying with each other. A lovely flush fills her cheeks, and her violet eyes catch the candlelight, making her seem to glow.
“What did he say?” she asks Mamma.
“I asked him if he had anything to do with it,” my mother notes. “He said, ‘You always told me to be kind to girls.’ That’s when I knew—he wasn’t going to be good. He was going to bejust. A storm, quiet, controlled, and deadly. The kind of storm you pray is on your side.”
Valentina smiles, so faint but soft and warm. Despite her eyes on her tea, I’d wager her thoughts reflect my mother’s last words—and how she knows I will always be on her side. Even when I must punish her.
“Roman, be a good boy and give me and Valentina a few minutes alone.”
With a wry smirk, I rise, following my mother’s command. My wife’s eyes trail me, her gaze expectant. I lower my hand to capture her chin and rub my thumb along her cheek, uncertain if I’m reassuring her or myself. Her eyes soften, smile deepening.
When Mamma huffs her impatience, I take my leave. But it doesn’t mean I won’t know what they will discuss.
Once I’m at the other end of the hall, closer to my study, I tune my digital interface with the security cameras in the salon. I don’t want to believe my mother would betray me, but I also know she holds Valentina in high esteem. High enough for her to tell the truth?
Another storm I will weather—one way or another.
Sitting down in my study chair, I monitor the feed. They paused for a glass of wine.
Mamma studies her like a chessboard. Not with malice—but with the same cold calculation she once used to analyze kill orders and mark dossiers. That same stillness she carried while training me to kill before I could drive.
Or when she stared down at my father after catching the cheap stench of a new whore’s perfume on his collar.
