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“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“Not bad, actually,” she replies, seeming shocked. “You must be worried sick.”
I didn’t expect her to come right out and say it. Is it that obvious? “I have to get him out of there. Poor Drake …”
“I hope you don’t mind me saying, but that’s an interesting and surprising name for a Russian.”
A memory touches me of Anatoly running into my room with a secret sort of smile.Call me Drake now, okay? D-R-A-K-E. Itmeans dragon, and it’s better than my other name, okay? My old name.
“It’s not his real name. Drake is ten, and already he can see through Dad’s crap.” So many memories touch me, but one hits me hard: the first time Drake saw Dad completely lose it, the love draining in real-time from his small features. “He wants nothing to do with him.”
“How can you get him? Without me … I mean.”
“I don’t know.” I rub my face, suppressing a groan of frustration and regret. “I don’t even know if he would’ve given Drake up if I brought you. He scares me so much. It’s like I can’t think. I don’t even know who I am. He can twist me up so easily.”
“Not anymore,” she says fiercely with a genuine determination. “You’re here now. You’re safe. You’re protected.”
“MaybeIam, yeah.”
“I want to help, but it’s like you said. Your dad might not have given Drake up.
“Maybe …” I pause, annoyed when I realize I’m chewing the inside of my cheek. “Could you ask Dimitri? He might listen to you.”
I hate asking her this, mainly because Mikhail has promised his help, but the Bratva is an old system with a clear hierarchy.
“If they go to war with your dad, even more people will suffer?—”
I cut her off. “Is this you speaking or Dimitri?” Talking about Bratva wars seems petty when my brother is out there, terrified, waiting for me. Maybe that’s just the fierce big sister screaming out in me. There’s nothing petty about bloodshed.
“It makes sense.”
“Please,” I say. “Can you try?”
“Okay.”
She pauses, looking at her sketch. I wonder if she means it to be her or somebody else, somebody she knows, or perhaps a future version of her, with Dimitri’s baby in her belly. A silly idea comes to me. One day, we’llbothhave Sokolov children.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks, looking at me.
“Just … the future, if there is one.”
“I should call Dimitri,” she murmurs, then pauses. “What about the future? I try not to think about it. I’ve always found that’s the best way.”
“Me too,” I reply. “If I ever let myself think about the future, I might let myself hope, leading to more disappointment. Sometimes, Lia, I hate thinking like that. I hate not letting myself think about marriage, kids, a future, and a family.”
“Do you want that?” she asks, her tone making it almost a forbidden question.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “I always thought no,hellno, but now …” I see Mikhail, hair combed back, glasses perched on his nose as he looks down at our child. I can see our baby’s perfect face in the reflection of his glasses.
“It’s better not to think about it,” she says, standing up. “I’ll call Dimitri.”
Even in her tone, I can tell she’s not hopeful. Realistically—I’m starting to hate that word—what can Dimitri do, anyway? Declare war against my father? Send dozens of men into LA toscour the city, shoot up stores and barbershops and everyday places, and hurt civilians? All for my brother? Would I be able to live with that?
Lia leaves. I go to the library window, looking out at the basketball court. Ania is wearing a bright orange sweatsuit. She shoots, misses, jogs quickly over to the ball, then shoots again and repeats the process. I find something about her erratic and eccentric behavior endearing, almost like she’s my sister-in-law already.
I need tochill.
Lia returns, face bright red, breathing hard, and hurrying into the room. “Whoa. What’s up? What happened?”
