Page 28 of Devil's Vows
“My younger sister, Milana, is at home,” I say, for what it’s worth. Maybe this will put her at ease, even though Milana is as solid as smoke right now.
“Your sister? She isn’t in Russia?”
The Scaleras did some of their homework, but this morning showed me they don’t have the extensive spy network the Petrovs have. Italians never learned to look behind and beyond their backs like us Russians did. It was kill or be killed; maybe you’re unlucky and end up in a Gulag forced-labor camp orprison. Knowledge is power—as I proved again today—and it got ingrained in us through a century of political upheaval, where not knowing could land you in the Gulag. Or dead.
“She came back some weeks ago.”
“Oh.”
Another chirp. Just like a little bird. Mymoya ptichka. A small smile plays in one corner of my mouth. It suits her perfectly.
It turns quiet in the car, the girls tired out from the out-of-the-ordinary trip to the park. I’m fighting to turn our home back into the sanctuary it once was, and my daughters don’t need to go off the property for anything.
I never make the trek with them to Manhattan and could have scheduled the meeting closer to home, but I wanted a very public, touristy place to meet with the Scaleras. They’re tracking Gabi as we speak, seeing where we’re heading, and that’s fine. I’d do the same—I’ve done the same—and I don’t mind them following along as we head toward Long Island.
Little Odessa might be where it all started decades ago, but the old Pakhan bought, as soon as he could afford it, an estate in an exclusive neighborhood where forests and fields create distance between us and our neighbors who don’t tolerate trespassers, either. It’s been great for security and privacy, and it’s paid off, never mind the strong divide between work and life—the Petrov estate’s value has multiplied a hundred-fold.
For a while, it’s silent in the car, and with both girls now asleep in the back, holding onto their balloons like teddy bears, I skip the drive thru.
Gabriella glances toward them and smiles at me. “They’re very sweet. What’s their routine like?’
“Well, that part is a bit haywire at the moment.” I run her through their day. There isn’t much to a child’s routine, except combining it with my schedule has proven difficult. I’ve tried to schedule my work around their needs, but it isn’t always possible.Things give and take and get thrown out the whole time. I’m still struggling to find a system that works. “We’re low on staff, too, which complicates things.”
“I can help out.”
“Yeah?” She clearly isn’t from the local nanny stock where they won’t touch a household chore beyond cleaning up after the kids. Darya never lifted a perfectly manicured nail. Milana is blind to the dust and dirt, and with half the house still locked up, it is what it is. “We’ll see. I’ll show you the house first and go through the rules. We have some home renovations going on, so parts of the house are closed up and off-limits.”
The SUV in front opens the gate, and I follow it in, shadowed by the other security vehicle. The civilian cars continue to a side road that gains entry to another side of the property, a good few hundred yards from the main house.
“This is it?” Gabi asks, shifting in her seat and reaching for her satchel where she placed it on the floor.
“Yep.”
“It’s…it’s massive.”
Sounds like she hasn’t seen the Scalera fort in Massachusetts yet, because it’s similar to this one. Safe, secure, impenetrable, inescapable, which is hell if your house is burning down from the inside out. It takes a good thirty-second drive to get to the front of the house, where I park beside the massive circular fountain.
“I’ll take Irisha, if you can manage Katya,” I say as I pop open my door.
I’m stepping out of the vehicle when the front door flies open. Milana rushes down the stairs, still in her satin nightgown with a robe flung open, barefoot, hair an uncombed nest.
“You fucking asshole!” she yells, finger pointing at me. “You fucking piece of shit! You blocked my credit cards—ALL OF THEM! You took away all my cash! You—you—” Her chest heaves, and she grabs her hair and pulls.
Irisha wakes up with a whimper, just as Katya starts to cry. Gabriella, wide-eyed and pale, scrambles out of the car.
“Milana, stop,” I say, my voice calm, but deadly.
“Fuck you!” she screams, not sparing a glance for either Gabriella or my girls.
I meet Gabriella’s stricken gaze briefly, and there’s no instruction needed.
“I have them,” she says, already busy unbuckling Katya from her seat.
“Go with Gabriella,” I say to Irisha as I help her out. “Go show her your room.”
“Papa—”
“Just go,malyshka. It’s going to be fine. Milana’s just upset. I’ll be right there.”
