Page 97 of The Lazarov Bratva

“Honestly, yeah. You’re so…” I pause, eyeing him as I search for the right word. “You kinda seem like you were born in the gutter.”

Kristof arches a single brow. “Indeed.”

I bite back a chuckle and turn back to the windows, peering to catch every glimpse of the manor that I can as the car weaves up the winding driveway.

“My parents died when I was young. Too young. In Russia, there’s very little State help, so I had a choice to make and I made it. I became head of the house and devoted myself to caring for my younger brother and sister.”

Slowly, I turn back to him. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine. It was tough, I won’t lie, but we managed with the help of Alyona.”

“Who is that?”

“She was my mother’s maid, and she became the housekeeper. She maintains the property when I’m not here, although I’ve tried to get her to retire for years. The woman is as old as worn leather, but she refuses.” A note of affection slips into his tone. The car pulls to a stop, and he claps his hands against his denim-clad thighs. “Who knows? if I’d had decent parents, maybe our lives would have turned out very differently.”

I can’t imagine Kristof in any other life. However, it’s easy to reason that a change like having his parents alive might mean the Kristof I know would never have come to be.

“Then where would I be?” I reply. His gaze lingers on me for a thoughtful moment, then he slides from the car like a shadow.

Two seconds later, he’s opening my door and holding out a hand for me. I accept it with a smile. Immediately, the cold is biting, seeping through my clothes as if I’m stark naked. I shiver hard and cuddle into Kristof, who wraps an arm around my shoulders and bundles me up the snow-covered path. Gravel crunches underfoot as Nastja and Ivan pass us in a hurry.

“Freezing my fucking tits off,” Nastja exclaims, taking the steps two at a time to the front door. She raises a hand, but her knuckles don’t reach the door as it swings open as if on instinct.

Immediately, a thick, grisly flow of Russian erupts from the doorway and Ivan bursts out laughing. Both he and Nastja fall into speaking Russian in reply to the third voice, and my heart ticks up a few beats.

I don’t speak the language. Will whoever that is immediately look down on me for that?

Reaching the door, Kristof hurries me inside and kicks the door closed.

I’m engulfed in a welcoming heat in the middle of a large, golden hallway with doors splitting off in all directions and a grand white staircase curling up to the right. A sparkling copper and black chandelier twinkles above me as Kristof helps me with my coat, then he strides forward and hugs someone I can’t see.

“Ahh, Babushka,” he greets warmly, then he steps aside and sweeps an arm toward me. “Alyona, this is Alena.”

Alyona is smaller than even me, hunched over with a red shawl wrapped tightly around her small shoulders. A pair of wiry spectacles balances from a slightly crooked nose, and a pair of striking green eyes peers at me through a face full of heavy wrinkles. A shocking scorch of red hair sits atop her head, and when she smiles, grey teeth glimmer at me.

“Tak eto devushka Kristofa? Dobro pozhalovat’, moya dorogaya, bozhe moy, ty kozha da kosti!” Her grisly voice is so shocking to my ears, but her smile is warm.

My heart sinks, and an uncertainty pulls at my smile.

“English, Alyona,” Kristof says. “She doesn’t speak Russian.”

“Skin and bone!” Alyona declares, and she reaches for me with one wrinkled hand. “Welcome, welcome!”

Her hand clasps around my wrist, and before I can stop her, she pulls me into a hug that’s far stronger than I expect from how frail she looks. Clearly, there’s a lot of strength hidden under those wrinkles. She breaks away, distracted by Nastja, who takes off her coat, and Alyona spots a fresh tattoo of a dove peeking out from under her shirt.

“What… what did she say?” I whisper up at Kristof.

He looks down and winks. “She called you my girlfriend.”

My heart does a flip in my chest, and warmth spreads across my cheeks.

Girlfriend.

It’s so exciting to hear that word come out of Kristof’s mouth, and yet, at the same time, it doesn’t feel right. It’s as if it’s not important enough to describe what we are.

“Alyona, are the rooms prepared?”

Alyona breaks away from scolding a laughing Nastja and turns to Kristof. “Yes. Yes, all ready. Go, go. You stink. Unbelievable!”

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