Page 205 of Silenced

“Mom! You can’t say things like—”

“He passed away, yes,” Niko interrupts me, angling his head to the side.

Mom shoots him a wide grin, eyes sparkling with delight. “Good!” Then, she encourages me over the threshold and tugs on Nikolai’s good hand too. “I made tea. How your father took it.”

The Russian way.

“Mom,” I mutter, tone wary as she slams the door closed. “How do you know who Nikolai is?”

She doesn’t answer, just continues dragging us toward the kitchen where there’s a spread that takes me back to my childhood.

There’s Keemun black tea infused with orange and served with jam for sweetness, cookies on one side and crackers with ham and cheese on the other. She’s gone all out—fresh blinis surrounded by a bowl of sour cream, with small dishes of red and black caviar on a bed of ice. That’s all for Niko because she knows I hate fish roe. There’s my father’s favorite, Medovik cake, and Bird’s Milk cake, too.

Smiling, I inform Niko, “She’s trying to impress you.”

“He returned my daughter to me,” Mom declares, tone stout as she hustles Niko into the chair where my father sat—at the head—then, she glances between us as she plants herself at the packed kitchen table while she drains boiling water from thesamovarinto a small teapot. “That’s worth baking for.”

Though I slip into my seat, I ask again, “How do you know who Nikolai is, Mom? How do you know people call him ‘Mute?’” In fact… “What do you know about Dad’s time in Russia?”

I hadn’t even thought about broaching this topic of conversation today, not on our first meeting in years, but I have more questions than ever thanks to her bloodthirsty interrogation.

Exactlywhoare my parents?

I gasp as a thought occurs to me. “You’re not Russian as well, are you?”

Mom snorts. “No. I’m not, thank you very much. American born and bred.”

“Sleeper agent?” Niko rumbles, but his question makes me tense.

“No. I hate Russia. Hate the Kremlin. Hate everything Russian-shaped apart from my husband. And,” she mumbles, her tone begrudging, “you if youdiddeal with the bastard who hurt my baby.”

Is this conversation actually happening?

While I’m gaping at her, Niko confirms, “He’s dealt with.”

Mom sniffs. “Good. I’d like to say I told you so about Harvey, honey, but I won’t—”

“You technically just did,” I grumble.

Ignoring me, Mom serves us tea and passes out the dishes. “I’m just a standard American who fell in love with an ex-spy. It’s not how the romance books make it look,” she says dryly, but there’s a wistfulness to her tone that tells me how little she regrets her choices.

My mom and dad loved each other.

I know, categorically, that was why I’d married Harvey—I’d been chasing that love.

Hunting something so pure it was borderline mythological in how it bound two people together so intrinsically, it was soul deep.

I’d always been a daddy’s girl, but when we’d lost him, I’d practically lost her. Her grief had led to depression, and Mom at rock bottom had been, in a word,mean.

The memories are tough, but not as tough as living back then.

Nikolai’s hand slides across my shoulders and he curves his arm around me.

He couldn’t have known where my mind took me, but I’m not surprised that he’s found an excuse to touch me.

Touch is his love language.

Because yes, he does love me.

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