Page 57 of 10 Days to Ruin

She cackles. “Mine?Nyet, girlie. This is Sasha’s.”

I nearly choke on my own tongue.

“It was my mother’s,” Sasha interjects, suddenly focused on arranging the salt and pepper shakers on a nearby table in military formation. “Zoya ran it for her. Took it over when she—when the time came.”

Zoya’s good eye twinkles, though the other is cloudy with cataracts. “Did my best not to run it into the ground. I know my way around a kitchen, don’t be fooled. But I let Sashenka here deal with all the numbers and things.” She waves a hand and laughs. “Now, come! Lots to eat. Lots of meat left to put on you,malishka.”

I’m nearly speechless as she pinches my butt, loops a hand through my elbow, and then leads us into the kitchen, bathrobe and all.

Sasha follows behind. I could swear he’s even smiling.

I’m so full I might die.

But Zoya does. Not. Stop.

The food keeps coming in endless courses: dumplings glistening with butter, borscht the color of fresh poppies, a bottle of vodka so cold it mists.

“I’ve never eaten so much in my life,” I say for the fifteenth time. Zoya once again pretends she doesn’t hear me. Instead, she tops off my shot glass with still more vodka.

“Za lyubov!For love!” she cries out as she throws hers back.

Sasha downs his in one swallow. I let mine sit.

For a lady who must be pushing at least eighty-five, she can put ‘em back like a freaking pirate. Even with the ten thousand calories I’ve eaten, I’m woozy from the two shots she didn’t let me talk my way out of.

Zoya sets the shot glass back down, mumbles something about “checking on inventory in the pantry,” and disappears. I keep my eyes fixed on my plate, pushing food here and there with my fork. Sasha does the same.

“So.” I brave a spoonful of soup. It’s heaven—beets and dill and something smoky that reminds me of rainy days at my yia-yia’s house, back when I was too young to know that Baba stashed us there for the weekends because he had “business” to attend to.

“So,” he echoes back. It’s barely a word. More of a grunt, really. Monosyllabic would be an improvement.

But after the day I’ve had, I’m gonna go insane if I’m forced to sit with my own thoughts. So I press on. “Your mom… She owned this spot?”

He nods, then tears a chunk of black bread with his teeth. “Yakov—my father—hated it. Called it a ‘distraction.’ My mother called it her soul. Maybe it was.”

I tread carefully. “Is she…?”

“Dead.”

“Right.”Duh, Ariel. “I’m sorry for your?—”

“Don’t bother.”

We lapse back into an awkward silence. The oven hisses as it cools, old gears settling back into place now that Zoya is mercifully done turning me into foie gras.

“Sashenka learned to cook here,” Zoya announces as she bundles back in the room suddenly, making it painfully clear to all of us that she was eavesdropping the whole time. “Every Sunday, he’d knead dough until his arms shook. He’s a better son than his father deserved, I’ll tell you that much.”

“Enough,” Sasha snaps.

But Zoya’s in storyteller mode now, and by the way she greeted us when we first entered, I’m thinking she might be the only person alive who can steamroll right over Sasha’s direct orders and get away with it. She carries on, undeterred. “Fifteen years old, and already makingpelmenibetter than I ever have. Your mother wept the first time you made them, didn’t she?”

His jaw flexes. “She cried because I used too much pepper.”

“Oh, don’t be so humble.” She raps his forearm with a wooden spoon. “She cried because her little wolf learned gentleness.”

The dumpling slips from my fork.GentlenessandSasha Ozerovdon’t belong in the same sentence. Does not compute.

Zoya pats his cheek. “Ah, don’t look so sour. She watches over you, yourmamochka.”

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