Page 107 of The Fire Beneath the Frost

Russian.

Soft.Urgent.And right behind me.

“Papa, I think it’s him.Please.We’ve been searching for a long time.Just talk to him.”

I froze.

I run into Russians all the time in New York.Brighton Beach is practically a Moscow suburb.But here?At the Stonewall?Almost never.I turned, slow as winter.

The man from before stood beside someone else now.Another man, older, maybe in his early sixties.His shoulders were slightly stooped, his silver-streaked hair combed neatly.He wore a camel coat over a pressed shirt, completely out of place in this chaos of crop tops and neon fishnets.

His eyes locked on mine.

Wide.Uncertain.

And then he spoke.

“Dimi?”he said, in Russian.“Is it really you?”

My hand slipped.

The shot glass shattered against the bar.

I stared.

It couldn’t be.It wasn’t possible.That face.Older, yes.Softer in places, weathered in others.But those eyes.Those goddamn eyes.

“Petyr?”My voice broke in the middle.“Oh, my God, I never thought I’d see you again.”

He bit his lower lip, just like he used to when he was holding back too much.

“I never gave up hope,” he whispered.A single tear slid down his cheek.

I blinked hard.My heart was galloping like it was twenty-five again.“Sit.Please.Sit.”

He did, slowly, like the chair might vanish out from under him.The younger man hovered close until Petyr motioned to him.

“This is my son,” Petyr said, turning to me with something like pride.“His name is Anton.”

“Hi!”the man said brightly.He bounced a little on the balls of his feet, grinning widely.“My papa only ever talked about you.I mean it.You’re like, legendary.”

Before I could say anything, Anton whipped out his phone and held it up like we were a couple of rock stars at a fan meet.

“Wait, hold still!”

“Bozhe moy,” I muttered, holding up a hand.“What the hell are you doing?”

Petyr grimaced.“Anton.”

“What?”Anton said, already snapping a few pictures.“This is amazing!I want to share this moment on Instagram.”

I looked helplessly at Petyr, who just shrugged, then finally smiled.

Anton glanced around the bar, his nose wrinkling slightly at the strobe lights, the glitter-slick drag queens dancing near the jukebox, and the gaggle of giggling men wearing not enough clothing.

“Papa,” he said gently, “you know this isn’t really my scene.Will you be okay getting home by yourself?I know you want time to catch up with… with Dimitri.”

Petyr nodded, eyes still locked on mine.“Yes.Thank you, solnyshko.I’ll be fine.”

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