Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 120955 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 403(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120955 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 403(@300wpm)
“Shall I leave the bottle, sir?”
“No, thank you,” I say, opening the laptop and booting it up.
He picks up the tray. “I’ll be here until eight if you need me.”
I acknowledge him with a nod before he leaves.
For the next hour, I try to lose myself in work. I’ve always enjoyed the challenges of running a business empire. The hard work and long hours ground me. Having a knack for figures, I enjoy playing the stock market and investing in high-risk projects. The financial part of the business is the most rewarding, especially when the money rolls in.
At six, a light dusting of snow starts to fall. I was going to give it another hour, but my mind isn’t on work. Shutting the laptop with a sigh, I scrub a hand over my face. I haven’t slept in twenty-four hours. It would be wise to get some rest, but the agitation and gnawing worry won’t let me. The vodka hasn’t taken off the edge as I hoped it would.
Pushing to my feet, I shove my hands in my pockets and stare at the lights of St. Petersburg shining through a veil of snow. Dinner isn’t until seven. The thought of a warm house, a long shower, and Tima’s food is inviting, but not as much as the idea of seeing my kiska, of touching her—when she lets me again—and reassuring myself that she’s here and safe. It’s that last notion that makes me decide against heading straight home. I should give her another hour like I promised myself. She’ll come around.
Igor stands when I exit the office.
Grigori lifts his head. “Good night, sir.” For a moment, his formal mask slips as he says to my guard by way of greeting, “Igor.”
Well, hell. I would’ve never guessed. Who knew Grigori had a soft spot for my bodyguard?
If Igor picks up on anything, he doesn’t show it.
At the reception area downstairs, Igor gets our coats where the clerk had checked them into the coat room. The clerk is gathering his satchel and umbrella, heading out for the day. The night guard is already there to take his place.
Yuri sits on a sofa near the exit, reading a book. After we go through the security scanners, he shuts the book and gets up to open the door.
Once we’re seated in the car and the engine is idling for the heater to run warm, Yuri asks, “Home, Mr. Volkov?”
Rubbing a thumb over my lip, I consider my answer as I look through the window. It takes me a second to make up my mind. “To the graveyard. The Orthodox one on the hill.”
Igor shoots me a look from the front passenger seat, but he doesn’t ask questions.
I’ve only been there once in recent years, not long ago. In fact, it was right before I left for New York City.
The traffic is heavy. We make it around the city and to the hilly part in just under an hour.
“Wait here,” I tell Yuri, getting out of the car and unfolding my umbrella.
Igor exits, pulling a beanie over his shaved head. He follows a few steps behind as I make my way to the graveyard entrance. The pedestrian gate is locked. A sign on the driveway gates says the graveyard closes at six. An iron chain dangles from one gate, the attached metal lock hanging open.
Igor pulls out his gun as I slip through the opening between the gates. I know what he’s thinking, because I’m thinking the same thing. Maybe some kids broke in to vandalize the graves and paint the walls with graffiti. Street gangs steal the fresh flowers and sell them on the sidewalks. The graveyard is also a popular place for drug dealing. The police are clamping down on the unlawful nocturnal activities, but cleaning the city of criminal elements is like trying to get rid of a cockroach infestation.
The graveyard is well lit. Spray lights cast a yellow glow over the family tombs in the back and the humbler tombstones near the gate.
Our shoes crunch on the gravel road as Igor and I make our way along the simple crosses and marble slabs. Keeping vigilant, I check in the dark corners of the shadows and prick up my ears. Below, the river flows strongly. The gush of the water reaches all the way up here. Except for the river and the noise from the traffic on the nearby highway, nothing else makes a sound.
When we get to a sheltered corner under a big tree in the back, we stop. Sadly, the yard seems to be empty of thieves and drug dealers tonight. I need a fight to vent my frustration and anger, and I was looking forward to one.
Igor hangs back on the road while I take the path to the double gravestone. The angel guarding it is a work of art. She kneels on the steps, one arm resting gently over the tops of the graves. The hem of her long dress drags on the grass. It’s so well-crafted that the marble is almost see-through where the fabric gathers in soft folds around her hips. To have given her no grief in such a setting would’ve been a lie, and a lie would’ve distorted the beauty of the artist’s work. She wears the signs of suffering and pain that I can’t show the world. What I’ve locked in my heart, she displays in the quiet of the graveyard, her only audience the ghosts. She’s perfect, down to the broken wing and the teardrop that runs down her cheek. The sculpture in the garden of my New York home is a copy of her. I had it made so I could look at it because the pain wouldn’t let me come here.