Page 52 of Corrupt: XXX Vadim 2
“You live with Dima?” she asks, her tone surprisingly neutral, given the nature of this war.
“Dima?” It takes me a second to remember Vadim’s nickname. “I, um… Yes. For now. It’s complicated.”
Her lips form a wry frown. I sense her mulling over her next words carefully before she finally says, “He’s dangerous.”
I swallow at her tone. My gaze cuts to Ainsley, who seems merrily undisturbed, though, according to Maxim, Vadim kidnapped her. It’s a horrible act for sure, and while I don’t claim to know Vadim fully just yet—Idoknow him enough to understand why he might have done it. To test himself. To convince himself that he could interact with Magda. He all but told me, and I don’t doubt that looking back at all he’s done since.
“He’s…complicated,” I say in answer to Francesca’s statement. “I won’t pretend like he’s not.”
And hell, after today I may not have to—he’ll kick me out. I try to feel more guilty, but as I watch Magda smile as she shows off Biphany, my heart swells up so big that there isn’t room for any other emotion but relief.
“Complicated is one way to put it,” Francesca says, her eyes narrowed in a way that makes me suspect she hasn’t forgiven him. Not one damn bit.
“I know what he did was awful,” I confess. “To Ainsley. I hope it didn’t traumatize her, I truly do. But maybe Maxim should take a page from his book the next time he breaks into our home and terrorizes a little girl.”
Oops,I realize as her eyes go wide. It seems Maxim didn’t tell her that little detail.
“Dima brings out the worst in him,” she says, her lips pursed. It’s not an explanation—I don’t think it’s meant to be one. Not really.
It mirrors something Vadim told me once himself. These brothers, so hostile, and yet so damn similar. Will they ever be able to let go of whatever hatred is simmering between them?
“I think it’s stupid that two little girls can’t play because their fathers are insane,” I blurt out loud.
Francesca eyes me for a moment. Slowly her small smile returns. “Maxim isn’t her father,” she says. “She’s not even mine. She’s my sister.”
“Ah.” I nod, and some of the uncomfortable tension between us eases. “Well, Magda’s not mine, either.”
Though you seem to think she is,a part of me hisses.You’re making decisions for her after all, behind her father’s back.
“But she’s Vadim’s, isn’t she?” Francesca says with a sureness that alludes to the fact she too can see the resemblance. “I’m sorry, but he doesn’t seem like the fatherly type.”
“He’s trying,” I admit with a sigh. “He really is… I take it, you aren’t his biggest fan, though?”
She bites her lip as if to stop herself from saying more. Then she shrugs. “I don’t like being the recipient of his little mind games, that’s for damn sure.”
Yikes. I file away that assertion for later. Could Vadim be manipulative? Yes, case and point is my current predicament—despite all my insistence to the contrary, I’m watching his daughter while he gallivants off to only God knows where. But are said actions malicious? Francesca seems to think so.
She stares off into the distance, frowning as if at an unpleasant memory.
To change the subject, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “Are you excited for your wedding?” It’s the wrong topic, one I’m woefully unable to be objective about. To my own horror, judgment leeches into my voice, far too potent to go unnoticed. “I got married young,” I confess apologetically. “It didn’t end well. I’m a bit jaded about it. Please allow me to live vicariously through you, though.”
Francesca eyes me warily, an eyebrow raised. “We haven’t planned much,” she admits.
From her tone, I suspect it’s not by choice. Could the delay have something to do with whatever drew Maxim to Moscow? Rather than pry, I shrug.
“I remember my own wedding. I put so much effort into it, when I should have put more time and energy into planning my future, sans some self-centered asshole.”
Ouch, Tiffy. This isn’t about you.Once again, Jim rears his ugly head, and I don’t know why. Why the hell would I bring up marriage at all? But my lips rebel against my brain, carrying on the conversation, “Iwastoo young,” I add, eyeing the woman up and down. “Twenty, barely out of high school. I had no clue. Not that there’s anything wrong with getting married young, that is...”
Judging from the faint pink coloring Francesca’s cheeks, she’s not too far from the twenty-year age mark. Damn. I could kick myself for insinuating something so rude. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be. I’m not ashamed of my relationship with Maxim,” she says with a maturity that puts past Tiffy’s mindset to shame. Her eyes take on that faraway look, betraying a difficult past I can only speculate on. “He’s not perfect. I’m not either. But I don’t have to justify that to anyone.”
I tilt my glass, finding far more solidarity in her words than I care to admit to myself at the moment. “I’ll drink to that.”
We finish off our glasses, still watching the girls. They chase each other, each one cackling madly as if in a competition to prove who is having more of a blast. If mirth could be graded on the decibel scale, then I’ll say this is one hell of a successful playdate.
“Ains doesn’t really have anyone her age to play with outside of school,” Francesca says after a moment’s silence. Her voice is so soft, it’s almost as if she’s talking more to herself than to me. But that seemingly harmless statement opens the door to so much more.
And for Magda’s sake, I step right on through. “We’re just next door,” I say carefully.
But we both leave it at that without crossing over that unspoken boundary.
Not yet.
