Page 75 of Lord of the Underworld

My smile wavers a little bit. We've always had a once weekly phone call when I lived in the States, where she would tell me all the social doings and the gossip of The Six. She would ask standard questions about my grades.,and my behavior. There was never anything of substance. "I haven't," I say, smoothing over the uncomfortable silence with a smile. "After I get a better sense of the schedule here, I'll be able to set up some time to see her."

"That's good," she says warmly. "I must tell you, I'm very happy to finally have a daughter in the house. Hopefully, to drown out the reek of testosterone."

Bursting into laughter, I say, "I am not sure that it's possible to do that."

"Fortunately, my wonderful in-laws, Lucya and Alexi, will be coming to stay as well."

I’m waiting for that chill to hit my backbone when she mentions Alexi's name. The superstitious fear of the Turgenev Angel of Death has never dissipated among the Moscow Six, but I don't feel it.

Mariya searches my face for a moment and grins. "You don't have that involuntary flinch most people get when I invoke the name of Alexi Turgenev." She leans forward, her eyes sparkling.

"I am not afraid of my Angel of Death," I say. "So, I can hardly be afraid of his grandfather."

"Well said," she agrees.

Dinner that night is a revelation.

I listen to the conversation around the table, the easy laughter, the stories, the occasional insults and provocations, mostly from Stepan. I'm filled with a sadness that it couldn't have been like this for my brothers and me as children. Holiday meals were spent in tense silence, hoping Father wouldn't lose his temper. Which would then make Mother even more miserable and upset that she had failed him in making this a holiday worthy of the Vasiliev name.

Even Alexi unbends enough to offer an occasional half smile, though most of his time is spent watching everyone and idly playing with his steak knife. After dinner, he walks with me as we head into the drawing room to open an early present.

"It is good to see you looking well, Vnuchka, granddaughter."

"Thank you, sir. Your grandson is so good to me." It's a polite phrase, though I know he hears the intensity of my feelings behind them.

He glances down at me with a brief nod. "I am glad. I knew you would suit."

We've fallen behind the rest of the family, standing in the quiet front hallway. "Vadim and I have talked about the kidnapping several times," I say, trying to work up my courage. "I remember everything about him, when we talked together, every word he said. You were there with his parents to rescue him, yes?"

He nods, keen eyes studying my face.

"What I don't remember is how he found me that last day, or when I…" I gesture helplessly, "ran away. The one time I asked him about that, I could see it caused him pain, so I stopped. Do you know?"

He looks at a portrait of two Turgenev ancestors, glaring disapprovingly down at us, a large man with blonde hair like Alexi's, and a woman who, even for that era, had a small, dangerous smile curling her lips.

"One of Grishchenkov's worthless sons, Yakov, was drowning you," he says, matter-of-factly. "There was a fountain behind their compound, a garish thing. I was told that Yakov would drag you to it, every day, telling you that you were a coward, weak. That he was conditioning you to be stronger." He spits the last word out like it tastes bad in his mouth. "Once we had traced back the days from when you had been taken, we realized you had survived two weeks there in Grishchenkov's hell. A 10-year-old, a child."

"Your grandson saved me," I say, my throat is thick with tears and remembrance. "Twice, he saved me. He talked to me all night once, in the cells. He was beaten so badly but he made me believe that your family would come, and he'd rescue me. Then, when Yakov tried to drown me…"

My stomach is twisting violently, and I remember it. I remember it now. My hands desperately slapping against the marble rim of the fountain, screaming bubbles into the water. His hand fisted in my hair, and another one on my back, pressing me down. The hall sways, or I do, and I put my hand up against the wall, the other one on my stomach.

Alexi leans down instantly, blue eyes concerned. "You remember."

"Some of it." My voice is more of a croak. "I remember Yakov laughing. Being dragged back to my cell every day. Knowing it would happen the next morning and praying the sun would never rise."

His hand, as huge as a bear paw, lands very gently on my shoulder. "Imagine," he rumbles. "A spoiled son from a powerful crime syndicate. And you survived him. You outlasted him." Alexi's smile is dark as midnight. "His death was not pleasant. We were not kind."

In a moment of insanity, I wrap my arms around him, hugging him tightly before stepping back. Alexi doesn't look offended, Slava Bogu.

He looks proud.

"Thank you," I say hoarsely. "For telling me, and for making Yakov Grishchenkov suffer."

He nods gently. "It was my pleasure."

***

Mamochka – affectionate Russian term for mother-in-law