Page 61 of The Fire Beneath the Frost

“Comrade Smirnov, Comrade Smirnova,” he said, bowing slightly.“Your usual table?”

“Of course,” Vera’s father said with a dismissive wave, like it was expected.Like it had never occurred to him, there could be a non-usual table.

Inside, the air was warm and thick with the smell of expensive things: roasted meat, real coffee, maybe even imported wine.The lighting was soft, and the chandeliers were crystal.Everyone inside acted like they knew each other from secret meetings I wasn’t invited to.

The women were draped in satin.The men wore tailored suits and gold watches.No one looked hungry.No one looked tired.I’d never seen this version of the USSR before.

We were led to a table near the window—the table, apparently.The chairs were cushioned.The tablecloth was starched white and clean.I sat stiffly on the edge of my seat, too scared to lean back.Mira did the same.

A waiter appeared with a bottle of something dark and expensive-looking.No label.That meant Georgian wine, probably.Real wine.Not the paint stripper they sold in kiosks.He poured without asking, and no one thanked him.

I tried not to stare at Petyr, but he looked like a deer that had wandered onto a frozen lake.His charm was intact, but the way his fingers fiddled with his water glass gave him away.

We didn’t belong here.Any of us.Not me, not Mira, not Petyr.

Only Vera seemed at home.

And suddenly, I understood something I hadn’t before.

This wasn’t just a pleasant lunch.This was theater.Her parents were staging a scene of some sort.

And I wasn’t sure I wanted to stick around for the second act.

Sofia Smirnova, in her fur-collared spring coat and pearls that probably hadn’t been earned through a single day’s labor, turned to her daughter and set one manicured hand delicately atop Vera’s.

“You know,” she said, her voice pitched just loud enough to draw the attention of every white-table clothed table in a five-meter radius, “nothing would make me prouder than a grandchild.It would be such a patriotic gift to the Party.”

I choked.On water, of all things.

It hit the wrong pipe the second I swallowed and immediately felt like I’d been struck in the throat with a wrench.I sputtered, coughed into my napkin, tried not to make a scene, but it was too late.All heads turned.

Mira leaned toward me and gave me an awkward pat on the back.“Careful,” she muttered under her breath, her cheeks reddening.“You okay?”

“Fine,” I rasped, though I wasn’t.Not even close.The air felt like it had been sucked out of my lungs, out of the whole damned restaurant.

This was the first time since I’d started sneaking around with Petyr that the obvious had actually hit me.That he was a married man.That this wasn’t a pretend marriage.

And Vera, who always seemed so aloof with Petyr, was now sitting there nodding politely at her mother’s grandchild comment, not a single twitch of protest on her face.

I glanced at Petyr, desperate to find some kind of reassurance in his expression.

Instead, I found a goddamn smile.

Wider than I’d ever seen.Practically beaming.

“We keep trying,” he said with a wink that nearly made me drop my fork.Then he turned his head and kissed Vera’s cheek.Soft.Affectionate.Practiced.

I felt it like a body blow.An invisible fist straight to the gut.He might as well have stabbed me with the butter knife.

He was holding her hand now—interlaced fingers, like teenagers in love—and chuckling as Vera’s father launched into some boastful nonsense about grandchildren and legacy.Something about being able to pull a few strings to ensure the child of a Smirnov was raised with all the privileges the Party could offer.Education.Connections.Influence.

It made me want to vomit.

“Vera, how’s your work at the factory?”Her mother asked.“You know I could find you a position with the Ministry if you’d like.”

“Oh mother, you know I want to work my way to the top, just like you and father.”Vera sipped her wine.“I don’t want people to think I didn’t earn it.”

A server appeared beside us, his face as stiff as the collar on his starched white shirt.He didn’t even ask what we wanted—just looked straight at Mr.Smirnov.

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