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Thirty-Eight
Ruby
I’ve never flown private before, but I can’t say it isn’t an experience. It’s astonishing the rules that can be broken when one flies privately. Take Simba and the kittens, for example. I’m pretty sure the paperwork to bring them into America wasn’t done. At least not to the extent that the average person traveling with their pets would have to go.
Although I’d been excited to travel, it hadn’t taken long before I’d succumbed to sleep, leaving Kirill, Dimitri, Maxim, and Pavel to converse amongst themselves.
From the plane, we’d piled into waiting cars, Kirill sitting beside me in the back seat of an SUV driven by Dimitri, our animals in the cargo, the kittens in a kennel while Simba rests his head lazily over the back seat next to me.
I watch the scenery, transfixed by the beauty of spring in Oregon.
“It’s beautiful here.”
“It is,” Kirill agrees. “Have you been before?”
“No. You?”
“I have once. Last year when I toured the location for Volk Vault Bank. There will be other branches, of course, but this is the first.”
“And more in Canada?”
“Yes.”
I smirk. “Are the Volkovs trying to conquer the world?”
“Conquer, no.” He locks his gaze on me. “Control, in part, yes.”
“Control?”
“I intend to take on a more political role in Russia.”
“But your family is a family of criminals.” I can’t help it; I whisper when I say it.
Kirill smiles. “All politicians are criminals, wife. I will be no different.”
“Sometimes your view on the world is so sad.”
“My view is based exclusively in reality, dear wife. It is your view that is skewed.”
I feel my nose scrunch in distaste. “Whatever you say.”
He laughs, lifts the hand he holds, and presses a kiss to the back of it. Then he says, “I love you and your beautiful, innocent mind, Ruby Volkov.”
Ruby Volkov. It’s the first time he’s called me that, and I can’t say that I don’t love it. That it doesn’t give me butterflies.
It’s also the first time he’s directly said that he loves me.
I’m not sure, but I think I melt just a little as I move closer to him on the seat.
The house is massive and painted a bright, beautiful white. Big windows are capped in chunky black, and the double front door is an ashy blonde wood with three-quarter glass that glitters in the sun. A big, wide wraparound, ashy-stained wood porch encircles the house with its quaint turrets.
Not far from the house is a four-car garage, also in white with chunky black window capping. Each garage door is done in a wood stain to match the front door and porch, with bulky black buckle-like adornments stamping the face of each door. Every inch of the house is bursting with personality.
It’s nothing close to the size of Kirill’s home back in Russia, and I immediately love it.
On the edge of the seat, I drink it all in. New blooms of purple and white dot the green shrubs that line the front porch of the house, and a big ornamental cherry blossom in brilliant pink dances to a gentle breeze where it stands in the front yard not far from the right turret. There is an ashy stained bench, weathered just enough to feel homey, tucked under the tree.
“Kirill,” I breathe. “Is this?—”
