Page 52 of My Wedding Night Massacre

I perform a normal visit with every tool I have because Denis doesn’t need to carry whatever’s happening in the room above his head. He’s two years old. He needs his mother to be present, to read the bear book, and to admire the picture. That’s what I give him.

When Nadia appears in the doorway to take him for his nap, Denis argues and negotiates. He has developed opinions about naps. He makes his case at length. I tell him I’ll be here when he wakes up, which I don’t know is true, but it's the only thing I can say to him. He accepts it with the trust of a child who hasn’t learned yet that adults don’t always mean it.

He lets Nadia take him, but at the doorway, he turns to look back at me. “Bye, Mama.”

“Bye, baby,” I say. “I love you.”

He disappears down the corridor.

The room is very quiet.

My father unfolds his hands. He stands, smooths the front of his jacket, crosses to the window, and looks out at the ordinary street below. He keeps his back to me when he speaks.

“I’m glad you came,” he says. “It does Denis good to see you. It does you good, too, I think.” He pauses. “I hope you’re thinking more clearly now.”

I say nothing.

He turns. His eyes sweep the room, the book still on the table, the picture Denis made still in my hands. All of it in a single look that says here, this is what you have access to, this is what the arrangement provides. Then his eyes come back to mine.

“You can have this,” he says. “Visits. Time with him. More, eventually, if things settle.” He says it without heat or threat. “Or you can make choices that complicate the situation. I trust you understand the difference.”

I look at him but don’t answer. Three years have taught me that silence costs him more than argument. Argument gives him something to respond to, something to manage. Silence makes him work for the read, which he doesn’t like.

He waits for a moment, then nods once, satisfied with whatever he’s decided he’s seeing in my face.

His men drive me back to the Krasnov church. I sit in the back seat and hold the picture Denis made, this Mama with the dark hair and the wide crayon smile. I breathe through whatever is in my chest because there’s no room for it right now. The cab’s already waiting at the corner.

I get into the cab and prepare myself for Slava’s face when I walk through the door. The face he’ll make when he reads the note and understands where I went, the face that means he’s furious and trying to decide whether to lead with the fury or the relief. In my experience, with Slava, fury always leads. Relief follows when he’s ready for it.

I’m ready for both.

33

Slava

Pavlina is in the kitchen when we get back.

She’s sitting at the table with a mug in front of her, her jacket on, her hands wrapped around the ceramic. She looks up when we come through the door and gives me the smile she gives when she’s performing fine but isn’t quite managing it. I’ve been relearning to read her face for four days now. I know the difference.

Something’s off, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.

“Gachev came through,” I say, pulling out the folded paper and spreading it flat. “Denis is in the outer boroughs. Address, entry points, guard rotation, all of it.” I tap the sketch. “We have what we need.”

She looks at the map. A flash of recognition moves through her eyes before she gets it back under control.

“I know,” she says.

I look at her.

“I know that address,” she says. “I was there this morning.”

The kitchen goes very quiet.

Misha sets his coffee down. I look at Pavlina across the map, wearing her jacket.

“Say that again,” I say.

“I called my father while you were out.” Her voice is even, not defensive. “I begged for a visit. I wanted to see Denis.” She meets my gaze. “I saw him.”