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The men respectfully avert their eyes as we pass.
Roman lowers me into the backseat of a waiting SUV before sliding in beside me.
The driver nods respectfully, welcoming us back to Chicago. Roman answers in fluent Russian, exchanging a few words I can’t even begin to understand.
As the SUV pulls away from the airport, I stare out the window. Maybe I should learn Russian. If I’m going to live here, if I’m going to be surrounded by his people, I’ll need to understand them eventually.
Nearly forty minutes later, the city gives way to a quieter, wealthier neighborhood.
Massive wrought-iron gates slowly swing open as our convoy approaches. Beyond them, a long tree-lined driveway stretches toward an enormous stone mansion that looks more like a private estate than a home.
Perfectly manicured lawns frame the drive, while elegant fountains and trimmed hedges soften the grandeur of the property.
The car comes to a stop beneath the covered entrance.
Waiting at the front doors is a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and silver threaded through her dark hair.
Roman steps out first before offering me his hand.
“Aurora,” he says, “this is Sofía. She has looked after this house for years.”
The woman’s face lights up with a warm smile.
“Welcome home, Mrs. Sokolov,” she says kindly. “We’ve all been looking forward to meeting you.”
“Thank you, Sofía, it's nice meeting you.”
She gives me a warm smile before stepping aside.
“I’ll leave the two of you,” she says.
Roman nods once before gesturing for me to follow him.
“Come, let me give you a tour.”
I trail after him as he leads me deeper into the house.
The mansion is even larger on the inside than it looked from the driveway. Wide hallways stretch in every direction, polished marble floors reflecting the afternoon sunlight pouring through towering windows.
He shows me around the large living room, dining room, kitchen.
“This is the gym,” Roman says, pushing open a pair of glass doors.
Inside is every piece of equipment I can think of, all neatly arranged in a space larger than the gym I used to visit back in Rome.
He closes the doors again and continues down the hall.
“My office.”
The next room is darker, lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and dominated by a massive black desk overlooking the grounds.
He barely pauses before moving on.
“There are several guest rooms upstairs. Ours is at the end of the east wing.”
Ours. We're going to be sleeping in the same room. I don't know why that excites me.
He shows me a small library, a home theater, another sitting room, and more bedrooms than I can keep track of.
