Page 109 of Ivory Ashes

“Chicken pot pie,” Mikhail corrects, coming out of the pantry.

He has a bottle of wine tucked under his arm and a juice box in his free hand. His shirt is unbuttoned, displaying a sliver of his muscled chest.

My throat closes and there is only one thing I’m hungry for.

“Ah. That explains the new hairdo,” Anatoly mumbles. He’s looking from me to Mikhail and back again like all the details of our sordid morning at work are written in the air between us.

I wipe the lust off my face and take Dante’s hand, letting him lead me to the set table.

“You sit here, Mama.” He directs me to a chair next to the one he has claimed. Then he pulls out the chair on the other side of him. “Mikhail can sit here.”

Anatoly pulls out a chair for Raoul. “Looks like no one assigned us seats.”

“You can sit next to me next time, Uncle Nat,” Dante assures him.

Anatoly winks at him. “Thanks, big man.”

Anatoly told me things could be nice here if I would relax and try to enjoy it. Is this what he meant? Mikhail pouring wine while Raoul dishes out pot pies. Anatoly humming songs to see if Dante can guess them.

I catch Mikhail’s gaze over the top of Dante’s head and, for a second, I can see it: our future. A life.

Maybe this can work after all.

Then the doorbell rings.

I hear Stella walk to get it and then voices in the entryway.

Mikhail, Anatoly, and Raoul are on their feet several seconds before I recognize anything is wrong.

“Fuck,” Anatoly mutters.

Mikhail turns to me. “Take Dante upstairs and don’t?—”

But it’s too late.

Iakov Novikov steps into the dining room. He’s as tall and broad as I remember, though significantly grayer. He takes in our scene. His lip curls in a sneer when his eyes land on mine.

“Am I interrupting?” he rumbles.

“It’s a family dinner,” Anatoly says coldly. “So… yes.”

“A family dinner? How sweet. If that’s the case, then you’re missing someone.” I assume he means himself, which would be bad enough, but then Iakov gestures to someone just out of view of the door.

A tall, thin woman with jet black hair and impossibly sharp cheekbones steps into the doorway.

The woman’s eyes land on me and narrow. “I’m Helen.”

She says it like I—or anyone else—should know who she is, but I don’t have a clue. I’m about to look to Mikhail for guidance.

Is this woman insane? Is Dante in danger?

Before I can, Iakov fills me in with a sickening grin. “Helen is Mikhail’s fiancée.”

39

MIKHAIL

The room is deadly silent. Helen is wearing a tight smile over my father’s shoulder, but even she can’t find the words for this situation.

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