Page 20 of The Beast of Moscow

Vera in mid-air.

At the height of her career.

A second from failure.

What had that moment felt like?

Was that why she’d been crying?

“Mr. Pashkov?”

Vas cleared his throat as his gaze cut away from the screen to the woman leaning in the doorway of the den. Her flat gray uniform with a basic white apron and sensible black shoes gave away her place to anyone who stepped inside his residence. Yet, he always demanded people respect Mira. Her life had not been an easy one, yet she was dedicated and loyal to Vaslav and his family. What little he had left.

She deserved respect for that, at the very least. After all, she was the only left living within these walls alongside him and dealing with his bullshit certainly wasn’t a trip to the spa ... even if she did stay well hidden and out of his way most of the time.

“What?” he asked roughly, scrubbing a hand over his itching scar and beard. He needed more of the oil he liked that worked to soften both.

“Natalia rang through.”

Something stuck to his throat at the news of his mother’s call, but he forced the irritation back. He’d always had an interesting and volatile relationship with the woman who had given him both life and the last name that belonged to her father. As far as he understood, she’d never known which client had been his.

“What did she want?” he asked.

Mira was already slinking back beyond the door, her words echoing behind her. “To visit. Tea tonight.”

Perfect fucking timing.

7.

Vaslav could chop a cord of wood in an hour or so if he had a good momentum going. One of the only forms of exercise he enjoyed, it also served more purpose than just his physical state. The large house, including the smaller guest lodge with three bedrooms at the far end of the property—a smaller copy, designed to look like a miniature version of the estate’s real house—used wood in multiple furnaces that had been vented throughout the many floors to stay warm.

While he didn’t need much wood currently, it never hurt to chop a cord and throw it down into the massive cellar where he—or someone else—could pile it up for later use. Wood burned better the longer it sat, anyway.

Nonetheless, if his mood happened to be decent and his pain level was manageable, a visitor would likely find Vaslav out back, lost in the rhythmic woosh of his axe cutting through air and the clunk-clunk of chopped wood falling into a pile around the stump he used to hold the current block.

“There you are,” Vaslav heard called as he set up his next piece of wood. His mother’s tone was already too shrill for his liking.

Natalia Pashkova was a yeller—the more animated or angry she became, the worse she shrieked—and his level of tolerance was typically determined by how drunk she was at any given moment. It was the only thing she did well, considering her temper was nearly as legendary as his own, and truth be told, he’d learned it first at home.

“Why on earth are we having tea out here now?”

“Because it makes your presence slightly more bearable, Mat.”

Only partly, he added silently. When he wasn’t confined—with her, that shit made him edgy.

Natalia hadn’t heard her son’s insult as she stepped down from the rear veranda and headed his way on the cobblestone path. He considered repeating it just because he didn’t care whether she knew his feelings or not about her presence that evening but opted for the less stressful option.

“The weather is beautiful,” he told her when she came to drop ungraciously into the rattan sofa where it faced a massive brick fireplace big enough to burn a body and the rest of the rear property. “Why wouldn’t I want to be outside? The sun hasn’t even set yet.”

Soon, though.

Within the hour.

Then, things would get interesting.

Natalia’s gaze cut toward the house when a door opened and closed. Mira quickly came into view carrying a tray filled with anything and everything they might need to keep his mother happy for her teatime.

Vaslav went back to chopping wood while Mira handled his mother.