Page 101 of Wicked Arrangement

“Don’t you worry, we’ll see plenty of each other and talk lots, you can’t get rid of me that easily,” Grace says with a smile. “Come on, I’ve got champagne on ice downstairs—non-alcoholic for you, Kim. The girls will be fine for a short while and then I’ll send someone up to check on them and put them to bed.”

“Sounds good to me!” David and I echo.

I’m looking forward to a night of carefree laughter and conversation tonight with my friends. I can only hope that tomorrow will bring more good news and that Grace’s assumption that we’re going back is because Yaroslav has made progress. I dare let myself hope that perhaps he’s even managedto rescue Gran. The thought of seeing her again makes me feel light and I feel optimistic that everything is going to be okay.

***

I don’t feel as confident as we pull up to the large Mediterranean Revival house in Orlando the next day. Its cheery terracotta roof, pale yellow exterior, and bright blooming garden stand in contrast to the darkness I know exists within. Yaroslav isn’t there to greet us and I can’t help but worry that it’s an ominous sign. Instead, Artem and Vova are there waiting.

“Welcome back!” Artem says, smiling at us both and clapping David on the back in a brotherly fashion. “How was your trip?”

“Good thanks,” David replies.

I’m feeling less sure of myself, so I keep quiet.

“Where’s my brother?” David asks, I’m grateful that I didn’t have to be the one to ask.

“Working,” Vova says bluntly, offering no further information.

“How are you feeling Kimberly? You look healthier than the last time I saw you if you don’t mind my saying, more color in your cheeks,” Artem says warmly.

I don’t know if he’s genuinely being friendly or if it’s a way to get me to trust him, he’s acting as though we’re on the same team. Could that team be Sharkozi’s? Who has Yaroslav trusted with the information of why Bogdan sent me here? If Artem knows, did Yaroslav tell him, or did Bogdan?

“Thank you, Artem. I’m feeling much better,” I reply politely.

Vova is silent. This isn’t out of character for him, I’ve never known him to be much of a chatterer. He tends to stand silently on the sidelines watching everything. As we all walk inside, Artem and David chat amicably. I try to study Vova from the corner of my eye. Could he be the spy?

Yaroslav trusts him, that much is clear, but I can’t get a read on him. He seems to radiate hostility toward me most times I’m around him, though we’ve barely exchanged three words. I wonder if his problem with me comes from loyalty toward Yaroslav and distrust of me or something else. Could he be the spy and he’s annoyed that my presence puts him at risk? After all, if he suspects I’m working with Yaroslav or not holding up my end of the deal with Bogdan then he would be wary of me.

Perhaps I’m overthinking and this is just what Artem and Vova are always like. Certainly, since I’ve known them that seems to be the case.

As we enter the house, we run into Yaroslav and an older gentleman. The man is on the tall side, though not as tall as Yaroslav, he’s inappropriately dressed for the warm weather in a suit that fits him well but is too ostentatious to be considered stylish. Something about his coloring, the shape of his eyes, and the confident way he holds himself is similar to Yaroslav and David, and I wonder if this is the uncle I’ve heard about.

Both men’s attention turns to us as they see us. Yaroslav seems uncharacteristically nervous and uncomfortable. The older man speaks first.

“Ah well, look what we have here! The runt and thecykacarrying the wolfcub!” he declares, throwing his arms wide and smiling a wide humorless grin.

His eyes barely dart across his nephew as they land on me, he unashamedly sizes me up. David seems to shrink into himself. I can see Yaroslav is tense, his jaw clenching, but he doesn’t speak. Though he does make a small sound, close to a growl at the wordcyka, I have no idea what he called me, but I can’t imagine from Yaroslav’s reaction that it’s nice.

“She’s not bad, Yaroslav,” the man appraises, “Though I would have preferred a nice girl from the homeland for you.”

“You mean a nicewhiteRussian girl,” I retort, snapping back before thinking, “And my name’s Kimberly.”

There’s a moment of stillness, as though everyone is holding their breath awaiting how the man will react. And a collective sigh of relief when the man lets out a small laugh.

“Feisty,” he leers, “Now I get it a little better. I do like a feisty one in the sack.”

Yaroslav quietly mutters something, a warning perhaps, as the man tuts and replies something in Russian. Now seeming bored of me, he directs his attention to David.

“No greeting for your beloved Uncle?” he demands, his tone far from the jovial one he put on before.

David forces himself to meet the man’s eyes, “Uncle Innokentiy, I hope you are well,” he says robotically before averting his gaze back to the floor.

So, I was right, he is their uncle. Innokentiy seems disappointed but unsurprised by David’s reaction. Before Innokentiy can speak, Yaroslav finally speaks up and puts an end to his taunting.

“Uncle, I’m sure you must be getting off now, you’ve much to do. There will be time in the future for a proper introduction to Kimberly and for you and David to catch up,” his tone is cordial and respectful, but it brooks no argument.

Innokentiy stands his ground a moment longer before smiling again. “Of course, nephew, you are right. I shall look forward to properly getting to know you, Miss Walsh,” he says, taking my hand and placing a clammy kiss on the back of it.

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