Page 116 of Arranged Control
The lights are all off and the door looks locked, but this is the address Molchanie sent. She told me to show up at three in the morning, probably because she knew the owners wouldn’t be here.
We’re in a decent Manhattan neighborhood, not all that far from my apartment actually. It’s in Morozov territory. I wonder if this place is affiliated or not. Most businesses on this block are.
My hands are trembling slightly as I approach. I can hear Seamus’s light breathing in the earpiece in my ear. The gun in my pocket is warm from gripping it tightly on the way over. He asked about fifty times if I was sure about this, if maybe it’d be better if he went instead, but I told him not to worry. I told him I could handle my own mother.
I’m not sure that’s true.
“You got this, baby,” Seamus whispers. “Just keep going. We’re watching and nearby.”
“It’d be better if you were here.”
“You know how close I am. One step at a time. Remember, she’s your mother. She won’t hurt you.”
“You’ve been saying the opposite for days.”
“I can be wrong. It’s rare, but it happens.”
“Let’s hope you were wrong before and not right now then.” I reach for the metal cover pulled down at the front. “How am I supposed to get in?”
“Test the bottom.”
I reach down and pull the handle. The covering immediately rolls up without any effort. “Huh. Unlocked.”
“I bet the door’s open too.”
Once the cover’s up, I push my way inside. Molchanie left the way open for me. “I can’t talk anymore. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
I’ve been in a thousand pizza shops like this one over the years. There’s a counter straight ahead in front of the big ovens where the food gets made and cooked. A TV hangs on the wall to my left, and there are booths on the right. Chairs are stacked in a corner, and a beverage fridge hums quietly. The linoleum is clean but faded from years of shoes. Pictures of famous New Yorkers are hung on the walls alongside Yankee memorabilia.
“Hello?” I call out, feeling silly. I’m pretty sure I’m trespassing right now. “Is anyone in here?”
I drift deeper inside. The bathrooms are straight ahead. But I stop suddenly when a shape pulls itself out of the very last booth.
She was so still that I nearly didn’t notice her. But now that she’s in front of me, I can’t imagine how I could’ve overlooked a woman so stunning.
Molchanie is beautiful.
She’s in her sixties. A little younger than my father. Her hair is still blonde, though shot through with some gray, and pulled into a tight braid. Her eyes are the same as mine, but even deeper blue, a stunning color. Full lips, short nose, sharp jaw, and an athletic figure. For a woman her age, she looks like she’s in incredible shape.
A gun is strapped across her chest. Her pants are black and tactical.
The stare she gives me sends a shiver of fear down my spine.
“Hello, Alina,” she says quietly. And again, I recognize that voice. Now I realize it must be some long-buried memory from when I was a baby. Maybe she used to talk to me all the time, back before she left. Papa said she hung around for a year after I was born.
Maybe I held on to what little scrap of her I could.
“Darya.” It’s strange using her real name, but what else can I do? Call her Molchanie?
There’s no way in hell I’m calling hermother.
“I’m glad you came. I know things have been difficult.”
“You almost killed Taras.”
“But I didn’t. He survived.”
