Page 58 of The Beast of Moscow

All I did was ask a question, she told herself while Vas paced the sunroom from one end to the other. It’d been mostly a joke. He’d not stopped the pacing for the entire twenty-minute phone call. She knew he was raging in Russian because of the little bit that she could hear, but otherwise, she couldn’t quite gain the courage to cross the space between the short hallway and the sunroom at the back.

Not that she was scared he might yell at her—even if he did, it wouldn’t be the first time a man had raised his voice in her proximity.

That’s not what stopped her.

She could still hear Igor back in Russia warning her.

“Go on his cues?”

She’d missed a cue.

A ballerina that couldn’t hit her mark.

The second the question had left her lips as they stepped beyond the small gate protecting the apartment building where the driver who’d picked them up at the airport parked, Vaslav’s entire demeanor changed in a blink.

“Why do they call you the beast?” she’d asked.

He was laughing, then.

At something else she’d said while they exited the vehicle and waited for the driver to pull out both bags that took way too long to be checked at customs. The moment his laughter died on his lips, and suddenly, he wouldn’t even look down to grace her with his gaze, she could feel it.

How cold he became.

How fast his muscles turned to stone.

In fact, he’d altogether walked away from her, not even leaving a chuckle behind. She’d raced to catch up as he crossed the cobblestone pathway leading to the apartment entrance they were meant to use. She’d barely had time to admire the yellow stone that made up the outside of the building, or the lush green ivy vines crawling all the way up to the red mansard roof. He’d given her so little information about the place—she actually thought they would probably be staying in a hotel for the duration of the trip.

Vas wouldn’t talk while he unlocked the door, and she asked about the apartment—was it his, rented? Did he know the owner? How many bedrooms?

She got nothing.

Vera didn’t need to be told to know she had fucked up here—somehow.

Did that qualify calling Igor—he said she would know if she had to, and Vera felt like now was the best time. Stepping back a foot in the hallway, Vera leaned against the yellow painted plaster wall, resting between two paintings of an ocean view over jagged cliffs, as she found the contact number she’d previously punched into her phone.

The instructions from the driver who had taken her to the private airport had been clear. Don’t put his contact name as his real name. Give it a nickname, if you want.

So she had.

Funny Man

It felt appropriate, but Vera didn’t have an ounce of amusement in her when she called his number. Putting the phone to her ear, she did her best not to chew on the side of her manicured thumb nail while the call rang through.

Except he didn’t pick up.

Three rings in, it went to voicemail.

Vera tried again.

Same thing.

She considered leaving the hallway and finding her bag, changing into something more comfortable, but they’d rushed inside so fast that she couldn’t even remember the layout. She’d been too busy chasing after an angry Vaslav who refused to speak to her or explain what was wrong when she figured out something was—how was she supposed to know she should remember the three levels of room, hallways, and stairwells to get back down?

Frustration was Vera’s greatest enemy. It was just an apartment—one with a beautiful view, and easy access to everything that was great and wonderful about Paris. She could easily navigate her way through the place, if the frustration she experienced just being there wasn’t so overwhelming for her.

She didn’t like to struggle, now. Vera had a bad habit of questioning herself and choices when it was accompanied by the prospect of success or failure.

How are you succeeding or failing here? It’s not like you’re on a stage here three seconds ahead of the count, Vera.