Page 164 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

“Thank you, dear.”

She gives me a maternal smile and I feel slightly comforted. These past few days of isolation have been harder on me than I’m willing to admit. It’s nice to sit here with a woman who’s kind, who’s warm, who’s willing to listen.

Her son shares none of those qualities.

“The cold has passed,” I tell her belatedly. “I’m all good now.”

“I can see that. Wonderful news.”

“And you?” I ask. “You’ve been well?”

“Very.”

She doesn’t offer much more than that, so I decide not to pry. I look out towards the lake. I don’t realize I’ve sighed out loud until Yulia mentions it.

“Something wrong, dear?”

“Oh, uh, no. It’s nothing.”

Her eyes twinkle. “Feeling a little lonely?”

“I’m feeling all kinds of things, to be honest,” I admit. “Lonely is definitely high on the list. It seems that everyone who wants to talk to me is off-limits.”

Yulia nods in understanding. “Is my son being difficult with you?”

“As far as I can tell, he’s been difficult with everyone since the day he was born.”

“You’re right about that,” she chuckles. “He’s always been hot-headed. When he gets angry, he often gets irrational.”

“Makes sense. But still, I don’t understand why he’d have such a problem with me talking to either one of you.”

“Either one of us?” Yulia asks curiously.

I realize she doesn’t know about my run-in with Vlad. “I met your husband a few days ago.”

“Oh, I see.” She looks mildly surprised, but she takes it in her stride. “He’s a charmer, isn’t he?”

“He is.”

She gives a soft smile. “You can only imagine what he was like in his youth, when he was healthy. When he chose to be, he was the most charming man I’ve ever met.”

“I guess the apple fell extremely far from the tree then,” I mutter.

Yulia laughs. “The world throws itself at the feet of beautiful people. Aleksandr has always been handsome. Vladimir wasn’t blessed with quite the same fortune. He learned to use his charisma instead.”

“So you’re saying if Aleks were ugly, he’d be more pleasant to be around?”

She laughs again—but this time, far out of proportion to the level of humor I’m bringing to the table. It builds and builds until she’s doubled over, wheezing and crying, slapping her knee again and again.

At first, I laugh with her, but when it keeps going, I fade off nervously and watch.

Eventually, she recovers. She dabs away the tears on her cheeks and says, “Pardon me. I… haven’t been myself lately.”

“Oh?” I ask, wringing my hands together. “In what way?”

“I suppose finding your way is always hard,” she muses. “But trying to find your way in your sixties is an altogether different challenge.”

“At least you’re trying,” I point out. “That’s brave. Braver than anything I’ve ever tried.”

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