Page 65 of Vasily the Hammer

Not an attack on me. A victory.“Bliniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!”is his war cry.

With that hurdle overcome, I make my own plate and then finally do that thing I thought of first thing in the morning: I Google my name.

I GoogleAna Baranovfirst, just in case. Just in case Tony is the liar and things aren’t quite as Vasily explained them but somewhere in the middle and I don’t have to feel so ashamed over how heartsick I am over my actual rapist. Nothing comes from that search, nothing that even remotely matches me. There’s still zero evidence that Vasily is anythingless than a monster.

Lacey Lombardohas dozens of hits. Nothing spectacular and, unfortunately, nothing in the way of social media that might provide insights into my daily life, but there’s a pile of local news articles from small news sites out of Tampa.

“A Taste of Tradition: Lombardo’s Culinary Experiments Draw Crowds, Cultivate Understanding Among Cultures”

“Chef Lombardo Honored at Community Gala for Contributions to Orthodox Cultural Awareness”

“Local Spotlight: How Lacey Lombardo Uses Cuisine & Compassion to Support Vulnerable Women”

“Dining for a Cause: Lombardo’s Establishment Becomes Hub for Helping Women Gain Independence and Hope”

“Orthodox Community Finds Unexpected Champion in Italian-American Restaurateur Lacey Lombardo”

Reading them puts more butterflies in my gut. Not just butterflies either. By the time I’m halfway through the first page, I have to walk away for a minute to fan the tears from my eyes. I wasn’t doing anything amazing, but I was a good person. I know that these articles are highlighting the best of me. I’m sure I have plenty of flaws. And what I was doing? Not the most incredible thing ever. Not curing cancer or fighting crime, but I helped people. There are articles about fundraisers and soup kitchens. I taught a cooking class to women who were in shelters due to domestic abuse. I sponsored asylum seekers. I provided jobs to people with special needs.

My preferred church was one I couldn’t understand the words to. I hosted events for them. I find a menu to my restaurant— which is still open although they’ve had to make official statements about my ‘illness,’ and there’s a wall of well-wishes for me that make me cry harder— and it has plenty of Eastern European dishes on it. I was active in the Russian community, and everything I see indicates they embraced Artom and me.

“Are those happy tears?” he asks.

I nod. “Do you speak Russian?” I ask him.

“Ya ochen khorosho govoryu po-russki!”

“What’s that mean?”

“That I speak Russian really good,” he says, only for his cheeks to pink up. “But maybe I don’t. I speak a little, though! Miss Tia teaches me. And they speak Russian at school, too.”

“Your classes are in Russian?”

“At church school. Not regular school. They talk English at regular school. Spanish, too.”

He starts demonstrating his Spanish— which I understand no better— and I let him run with it as I make a note to figure out school for him as well as church. I knew it was a big part of my life from the moment Vasily mentioned my missing cross, and now it’s hitting me that it’s a big part of Artom’s life too, and he’ll probably be more comfortable here if he’s seeing something he saw in Florida.

I navigate away from the articles to search the nearest Russian Orthodox church, figuring Phoenix must be big enough to have a Russian community. I’m bummed when I find there are a few but none close by, but what else do I have to do on Sunday? It’s something I can do for Artom.

It’s something I’ve always done to make him feel closer to his father. The stories I told him, the foods I introduced him to. It had to have hurt, but the more I think of it, the harder it is for me to imagine that Vasily was only ever a monster to me. Why wouldn’t I have just made someone up? Why would I give Artom enough information that if Vasily ever did pop up again, Artom would know Vasily is his dad?

I didn’t give him that chance on the rooftop. Was that for the best?

I try not to let myself get bogged down in the thoughts, and theclick click clickof high heels approaching from the hallway doesn’t make me feel any better. I’m glad Camilla came yesterday, but she was firmly against Vasily. I don’t think I need that right now. I need someone who knows Vasily, someone who can give me some sort of insight on who he truly is. Some explanation for why he did what he did to me six years ago and why he filmed what he did to me and shared it with the world.

It’s the surprised gasp that has me looking away from the tablet. Not Camilla. The woman has a similar look about her, but there’s something about her that manages to be both sharper and more toned down than Camilla. A more subdued suit, like it’s for actual business and not fashion. Heels a darker shade of red and an inch lower, with a slightly chunkier stem. Gold hoops, but half the diameter. Shrewd eyes that register shock for less than a second before they drop into an intense but calculated stare. I can tell that she’s taking in more than just me and Artom and the basic layout of the kitchen. I can see her cataloging every detail.

Also, I don’t know what this says about me— other than clearly, old me was fully aware of what both her brother and the father ofher child did for a living— but I immediately note that the fit of her jacket is cut deliberately to hide the bulge of a holster.

I’ve come to the conclusion that guns and I don’t get along. But I am handy with the filet knife that’s sitting right next to my pinky.

The woman’s eyes narrow as my pinky goes over the handle to inch it under my palm.

“I’m Maria Benedetti. I’m a friend,” she says.

“I don’t believe you,” I say honestly. I haven’t known anyone I’ve met so far other than Artom. But some people get classified asI don’t knowand others get classified asI know I don’t know. The distinction is important.

I know I don’t know this woman. If she was ever in my life, she wasn’t important, and my casual friends wouldn’t walk into my kitchen with a concealed weapon.

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