Page 57 of Vasily the Hammer

Camilla gives my hand another squeeze, this one accompanied with a shoulder bump, and then guides us to a pair of deck chairs more suited for sunning outside. The moment I get settled, I see the merit. I pretend there’s sun but don’t need to worry about sunscreenor cancer. It’s nice checking boxes like that off the list. And it’s only once the kids are out splashing in the water that Camilla asks, “Is it weird?”

I don’t need clarification on that question. “Super weird. It’s like... have you ever looked at a book cover and thought, ‘I have read this but I couldn’t remember a single thing about it’?”

“For sure. But I read something like two hundred books a year.”

I do a double-take. I don’t really have any way to avoid passing judgment on people since I don’t know if my opinions are based on looks or on unlocked memories, but I didn’t take her for a big reader.

“Smut, all smut,” she clarifies.

“Oh, I wasn’t—”

“Yeah, you were,” she laughs. “It’s cool. Believe me when I say that you’ve had some real shenanigans because of the smut I read.”

“Idid? Was I reading it, too?”

“Nah, you were this perfect little Catholic girl. Scandalized by every word I read to you. That’s why I kept reading them to you.”

I guess your closest friends are the ones who traumatize you the most.

But then she looks over to me, says, “I didn’t realize you were going to use it as divine inspiration,” and waggles an eyebrow at me.

I recoil at that, suddenly feeling this urge to throw my cover-up back on and, like, hide in it. “What does that even mean?” I whine.

She levels me with a long, hard stare. I can see she’s actually debating about what to tell me, like she’s just now realized that the amnesia means I’m missing core information about myself that I might be better off not knowing. But then she chuckles, lies back in her chair, and takes my hand. With a squeeze, she says, “It means that as much as you act like you hate it, the entire world has seen the best fuck you’ve ever had.”

She says it casually. She doesn’t look at me, doesn’t seem to care how I’m taking that. If she knows she’s dropping a bombshell, she gives no indication.

Vasily told me I was into exhibitionism. I doubted him, but he proved me right that day. So I can’t say that what Camilla is saying is false, but I also cannot imagine for a second that I would have let myself be filmed like that after...

After what Tony showed me.

I wince. “How can you joke about that?”

“Aww, Laces,” she coos. She does give me a sympathetic smile this time, which only confirms that she was referencing that very same incident. “I’m so glad you’re back home, okay? This is where you need to be to heal. We are the people who are going to protect you. Not Vasily. Guy’s an asshole. He always has been, always will be. What he did to you? He can fuck right off. But he still gave you the best fuck you ever had, and that’s your words, not mine.”

“There is no way I would have ever said that!” I fight back, ready to lose it on her.

But she laughs even harder, unquestioning as to whether this is bark or bite. “‘Course not. You’ve never said ‘fuck’ in your life. But yeah, you loved what he did. No shame in that. Now come on, let’s dunk these little brats. They’ll love it.”

Chapter 18

Vasily

Maribel stares at mewith impossibly wide eyes. Why do babies have such big eyes, I wonder to myself as Miguel hands her over to me the moment I arrive at his home— the house Kseniya, Artyom, and I grew up in once we came to America. Once upon a time, it was gigantic, but it’s barely any bigger than my penthouse apartment. Kseniya keeps talking about how she wants more kids, but it seems impossible in such a small house.

But the three of us had all the space we needed.

Maribel gives me a skeptical look at first, like she’s not sure why her dad has handed her over to a stranger before a proper introduction but she hasn’t decided yet if she should just trust it or not. She may have a mop of the blackest brown hair, matching her dad’s, but those giant blue eyes are her mom’s. Mine, too.

Her bottom lip, the sweet, squishy, pouty bow, begins to wobble.

I tighten up the grip I have on her ribs, under her arms. It’s not so much I’m worried about dropping her as I’m worried she’s about to flail or something.

“Don’t you do it,” I say sternly to her. I know not to show fear, but I still mutter, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

She does move suddenly, but it’s a tightening of her arms and legs before she kicks just once and squeals with laughter. Her little hands grab at the air, and Miguel says, “She wants you to hug her.”

“Okay, yeah,” I agree, and shit, I do hear fear in that. But I rest her weight on my chest and one hand on her back, patting her. It feels weird and uncomfortable at first, but then she sighs and drops her head to my collarbone. Seems she decided to trust her father.

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