The Darkest Temptation

“Moscow,” he repeated slowly, like he’d heard me wrong.

I raised a brow. “The capital of Russia? The place I was born? The—”

“Zamolchi.” Be quiet. “Why do you want to go to Moscow?”

“Papa practically lives there these days. You know he’s not watching his cholesterol. What if he’s sick and doesn’t want me to know?”

“I promise you, he is not sick.”

At the sincerity in his eyes, I believed him. The knowledge released a small weight from my shoulders, but it also added another.

“What if he’s in some kind of trouble?” I’d met a number of papa’s business partners, and there wasn’t a single one I would be comfortable being alone with.

“And once you are over there, what will you be able to do if he is?”

“Contact the police.”

Ivan didn’t look convinced. Actually, after a few seconds of staring at me, he cast a disinterested look out at the bay and released a breath. It held a tense note, as if the idea of me going to the Russian police had equally amused and disturbed him.

His eyes came back to mine, seemingly oblivious to the incoming tide that soaked his Italian loafers. “You do not know how things work over there.”

My fingers tightened around the jewelry box. That was only true because I wasn’t allowed more than an inch of freedom, but I kept the retort inside.

“If you’re not careful, Ivan, you’ll surely burst with all the confidence you have in me.”

His dry expression showed he was not close to bursting in any way. “It is January.”

“So?”

“When we were in Aspen last year, you complained about the cold. It was forty degrees.”

“Only an Eskimo would think forty degrees isn’t cold,” I returned with conviction. “Regardless, I’m not that delicate. I can handle a little cold.” It was the worst time in the world for a strong breeze to pick up and blow a cold front off the Atlantic. I fought a shiver—though, of course, Ivan noticed.

He pulled off his suit jacket, set it on my shoulders, and tucked a strand of blonde hair behind my ear. “As of today, you are twenty. You do not need your papa to hold your hand anymore.”

His comment stung, but I didn’t believe I was asking for much. I just didn’t want to sit in front of a Christmas tree with only him and our cook Borya, who were both paid to be there. I didn’t want to feel like the ballerina in the music box on my dresser, spinning in an exhausting and eternal pirouette just to please someone who had deserted me.

A part of it wasn’t even about all that.

“What about your date tomorrow?”

“I don’t want to go,” I said, pulling my eyes from his to the bay.

“Why not?”

I searched for a reasonable answer but remained silent. Ivan would think I was crazy if I told him the truth.

“Your papa likes Carter.”

“Maybe he should date him then.”

“Mila,” he chastised.

For years, Papa had hinted he would be happy if Carter became his son-in-law. I was sure it was only because his father was a business friend and a famous attorney from old money. Like always, I’d given in to Papa’s insistence, and Carter and I had shared a traditional courtship for six months now.

“He’s going to pop the question tomorrow, isn’t he?” I asked emotionlessly.

It should have been a ridiculous thing to ask considering we weren’t even monogamous. All anyone had to do was turn on TMZ to find out who twenty-five-year-old playboy Carter Kingston had been sleeping with. But he was taking me to The Grande, a restaurant well-known for marriage proposals. I could only imagine his papa had pushed him toward the archaic idea, just as mine had.

Ivan didn’t say anything, but his eyes told me all I needed to know.

I nodded even though, inside, the thought of saying yes, of knowing I would force that word past my lips, trapped me in a glass box slowly depleting of oxygen, and I was banging on the walls, choking, coughing, begging for air.

I forced the feeling down. “Carter will still be here when I get back.”

Ivan remained quiet for a moment before he tossed out his best card. “You know your papa would not approve of this.”

I chewed my lip. In the past, whenever I’d asked to tag along on one of Papa’s business trips, he’d refused. But even as a child, I noticed something in his eyes, a spark that couldn’t say no with more volume than if he’d shouted the word. I was never, ever permitted to set foot in Russia, that much was clear.

“I know, but he’s not here right now, is he?”

“You are not going.”

I stared at him.

Ivan might complain sometimes, but he never told me what I could or couldn’t do. It was always, “Yes, Mila.” “Of course, Mila.” “As you wish, Mila.” Kidding. That one was a besotted, sword-wielding Westley in my dreams. My point was, he never said, “No, Mila.” I bet if I wanted to rob a bank, he would be my second, no questions asked. Naturally, he’d tattle on me to my papa afterward, but he’d still don a ski mask with me.

The suspicion I’d worked so hard to keep down popped like a balloon, grabbed ahold of my heart, and twisted. What was my papa hiding in Russia?

Another family?

The only conceivable reason he might hide something like that from me was he didn’t want me in their lives. And, eventually, in his too.

Je ne pleurerai pas. Tu ne pleureras pas. Nous ne pleurerons pas. I will not cry. You will not cry. We will not cry.

The conjugations failed me, and a single, annoying tear ran down my cheek. Ivan angled my chin up to his and wiped it away, the soft brush of his thumb wrapping me in warmth and contentment. Something else filled the space between us. A pull. An attraction. A little electricity. Some days, when I was feeling particularly suffocated, it sparked hotter than others.

Neither of us ever acted on it.

My excuse was the fortune-teller I went to when I was fourteen. At that very gothic age, I’d asked her what my purpose was in life. She’d frowned, sitting behind her crystal ball, and then said I would find the man meant for me and that he would take my breath away. It was a generic response she probably told everyone, but it stuck to me like glue.

I breathed just fine around Ivan.

And Carter, despite experimenting with him out of sheer boredom. Not to mention, he was incredibly persuasive.

My time was running out like the last few grains of sand spilling through an hourglass. Yet still, I waited. For more. For some silly idea Madame Richie had put into my head.

That was my excuse.

Now, I was curious to know Ivan’s.

I leaned into the thumb running across my cheek and blinked soft eyes up to his. “How come you’ve never kissed me?”

“Because I want to live more,” he deadpanned.

A corner of my lips lifted. I’d never even heard my papa raise his voice before, and certainly not to Ivan, who was practically a son to him.

“But really?”

He gave me a weighty look and dropped his hand. “No more talk about Moscow, all right?”

Releasing a sigh, I nodded.

I watched him walk up the lawn to the house, the sway and expanse of the Atlantic settling in my bones with a sense of longing and seclusion from the rest of the world.

My phone vibrated inside my dress pocket, and I was tempted to ignore it, but I ended up reaching for it anyway.

Papa: Happy birthday, angel. Sorry I missed it. Business as usual. We’ll celebrate when I get home.

Another message came in.

Papa: Have fun tomorrow. Carter is good for you.

I put my phone back in my pocket and replaced my earrings with synthetic blue diamonds. I imagined them glittering like the Heart of the Ocean as the sea dragged me down, forever suspending me in gasping breaths, pearl necklaces, and the lonely sounds of the ocean.

It was what convinced me.

Tomorrow, I’d be in Russia.

resfeber

(n.) the restless race of a traveler’s heart before a journey begins

I waded in a pile of clothes, half-bohemian, half-sophisticated socialite. The former, I felt compelled to buy but never wore. Papa seemed quietly disapproving of anything yellow and nonconformist, and I took peace signs seriously.

Until now, apparently, as I packed colors brighter than the sun into an old cheerleading duffle bag.

I wasn’t home free of The Moorings yet, so I dressed the part in a loose blouse, checker-print cigarette pants, and white ankle boots. I caught my reflection in the mirror: a taller, less-pink version of Elle Woods in Legally Blonde staring back.

On my way to the door, I stopped to unclasp my pearl necklace and dropped it into my jewelry box. Then, I wound up the ballerina, setting her on a lonely pirouette, before I tiptoed down the stairs at three a.m.

Passing Ivan’s bedroom door, I stilled when a very feminine moan sounded on the other side. Ivan wasn’t a Don Juan, but neither was he celibate. Sometimes, during my papa’s absences, I’d come down to breakfast to find a half-naked woman in our kitchen. It never really bothered me—my childhood crush had faded long ago—but now, a flare of rejection started in my chest.

He wouldn’t even kiss me earlier because death was on the line, and now he was talking dirty Russian to some random? Although, I found it more annoying than anything. He was so convinced I was such a doormat he hadn’t even bothered to put his guard up after our conversation.

My nerves played havoc as I disabled the home alarm, expecting Borya to hear the quiet beep and come out armed with a spatula. I inhaled a breath of relief when no one showed, but this was only the first step to getting out of here alone.

I shut the front door quietly, pressed my back against it, and stared at the motion sensor on the porch ceiling. If activated, blinding lights would flick on like a choir of angels, and an ear-piercing alarm would sound. The UPS man hated us.

Holding my breath and my bag against my chest, I stepped directly below the sensor, hoping to land in its blind spot. I broke out in a cold sweat when the yard remained dark and silent.

Lowering to my stomach, I awkwardly army crawled to the bushes with my bag, remembering the path I’d learned to take as an unruly child playing James Bond. Though, back then, the sensor was a laser that would slice my arm off if activated. Now, it was my papa’s disapproval staring a hole in my back, which seemed even worse.

When I emerged on the other side of the bushes, I stood, brushed my pants off, and jogged down the winding street. I doubted my feminine wiles would get me past our private neighborhood’s gate without Carl, the sleazy Friday night guard, alerting my father or Ivan, so I took a turn through a backyard, threw my bag over the iron fence, and climbed up and over it.

Pulling my phone out of my bag, I ordered a Lyft ride. It was the longest three-minute wait of my life. My heartbeats collided with each other in anticipation of Ivan running after me with his pants undone or a very disapproving phone call from my papa. But neither of those things happened. Not before my ride picked me up, and not after he dropped me off at the airport.

Uncertainty twisted my nerves into knots as I took in the bustle of people and the liveliness in the air. Everyone seemed to know where they were going, eyes bright with vacation dreams and independence. I was out of my element. I’d never even had to carry my own bag before, let alone travel solo, but determination pushed me to the ticket counter.

Luckily, due to a last-minute cancellation and my padded bank account—contributed to by a hefty allowance each month because my papa trusted me—I got the last seat on the plane, squashed between two boys throwing Russian insults and peanuts at each other. I didn’t know where their mother was, but I had a feeling she was the woman across the aisle pretending they didn’t exist.

Miami’s nightlights disappeared from view, the orange glow fading into dark and turbulent water. I mindlessly watched a couple of PG movies considering my audience, though things blew up like explosives were going out of style on their screens.

Twelve hours later, we landed in Moscow.

Stepping off the plane and into the frigid jet bridge, I shivered. Inhaled. Exhaled. I could see my breath. I’d never experienced such cold in my life. It grabbed ahold of my lungs, stealing the heat from my body with icy fingers. I’d wanted to experience my birthplace, but I should have just climbed into our freezer.

As I stopped to slip on my coat, someone ran into my back. I turned with an apology on my tongue, but the little old lady who held a Chihuahua in a mesh carry-on bag beat me to it.

“Excuse me, dear,” she said in a British accent. “I didn’t see you there.”

“No, I’m sorry. It was my fault.”

She closed her sable fur coat and tilted her head. “You look very familiar. Have we met before?”

“Um, I don’t think so.”

“No . . . I’m sure I’ve seen you before.” She touched her gaudy gold necklace in thought. Then something dawned on her. Something that made her put a hand on her chest and eye me up and down as if I was a hooker.

This was growing weirder by the second, but before I could say anything, someone rolled by in a wheelchair, and the tiny dog in her bag started to bark. While she tried to soothe little Rupert, I offered another awkward apology and made a quick exit.

On the curb of the airport, I unfolded a piece of notebook paper I’d found stashed in one of my papa’s desk drawers. Feeling like Nancy Drew, with the help of Google Translate, I’d learned the Russian scrawl was an address to a home, complete with a record of bills he’d been paying there for years. I hoped this wasn’t a dead end because I had nowhere to go from here, and I wasn’t ready to crawl back to Ivan so soon.

I handed the taxi driver the paper, not having the faintest idea how to read the foreign alphabet. The cabbie’s dark gaze met mine in the rearview mirror, holding eye contact just long enough to send a whisper of unease down my back.

He took me past a busy industrial area to a quieter neighborhood with cobblestone streets and old, unique townhomes, where he parked at the curb in front of a lime green house with white shutters.

“Pyat’sot rubley.” Five hundred rubles.

I paid the man with the money I’d exchanged at the airport.

Stepping out of the car, I grabbed my duffle bag and tightened the belt of my peacoat. It was perfect for a cheerleading farewell trip to Aspen last year, but not so great at blocking the bitter Russian air from my skin.

The frozen iron gate squeaked when I pushed it open. I walked up the cracked pavement, dodging patches of ice and snow, and knocked on the door.

An older woman with graying blonde hair pulled into a ballerina bun answered a moment later. She was wiping her hands on her apron when her eyes came up to meet mine, and as she stared, the color drained from her pink cheeks. I opened my mouth to say something but didn’t manage a single word before she slammed the door shut in my face.

I closed my mouth and sensed she was standing on the other side of the door with her ear to the wood, waiting for me to go away.

When I knocked again, a thump sounded, followed by her shrieking in Russian, the words too muffled for me to pick apart.

The door opened once more, and this time, a thin gentleman in a black dress coat appeared. He was shaking his head and muttering to his wife, clearly believing she’d fallen off her rocker for good. She hid behind him, her apron grasped in her hands.

When his gaze found me, he froze like he’d just seen a ghost.

I forced a smile. “Zdravstvuyte—” Hello.

The woman ran.

“I’m Alexei Mikhailov’s daughter . . . Mila,” I said hesitantly, hoping he spoke some English because I was a massive failure to my heritage.

I’d given up the desire to study Russian years ago since Papa always claimed it was a waste of my time, so I’d only learned what I knew from Ivan and Borya. That included the bare basics, vegetables, and curse words.

A sliver of relief crossed the older man’s expression, and then he let out an awkward chuckle. “Of course, of course. You gave us quite a scare there.” He stepped back and gestured me inside. “Come in.”

With my freezing hands in my pockets, I stepped into the house and turned to take in the foyer. I stilled when I caught him sticking his head out of the front door and looking both ways before shutting it. Was I about to be the next star on Russia’s version of Forensic Files?

“This cannot be good,” he muttered, shaking his head and hobbling past me. “Vera, kofe! We drink instant in this house. Hope you do not mind.”

“Of course not.”

I hated coffee, but I’d drink five cups if it got me a few answers.

“Come sit down, girl.”

I set my bag on the floor and took a seat on a faded floral-print couch, while he took the armchair across from me. A crackling flame in the fireplace filled the room with much-needed warmth, and books and knickknacks littered every available shelf. The space was cluttered but comfortable in a lived-in way.

Vera placed two cups of coffee on the wooden table between us, watching me with big eyes, before she disappeared from the room like hellhounds were on her heels.

I stared at her retreat. “Is there a reason she’s terrified of me?”

He waved a hand. “She is superstitious.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You are Tatianna’s spitting image. We did not know she had a child. Well, we knew, but we thought you passed away shortly after birth. Problem with the lungs, your papa told us.”

I always knew my mother had died young, but the only reason I knew her name was because the one time Papa ever got drunk, he told me I looked too much like his Tatianna. I often wondered if that was why, as I became older, he spent less and less time with me.

“My lungs are fine.”

“I can see that,” the man said with a chuckle and sipped his coffee. “What brings you to our neck of the woods?”

“I’m on a mission . . . of sorts.”

He hummed with disapproval. “Have you not heard the phrase, ‘Curiosity killed the cat?’ You are just like your mother. Some things are better left in the dark.”

I’d never heard so much about my mother in my entire life than I had in the last few minutes. Finally, I was getting some answers. And, apparently, more questions.

“Why would my papa tell you I died?”

He frowned. “Is it not obvious?”

No, it wasn’t obvious. Nothing about this was.

I opened my mouth to ask more—

“Now, enough about that. I thought your papa might have sent you, but I can see now, he has not.” He set his coffee cup down. “You must go. It could not be a worse time for you to come here alone.”

Why did everyone think I needed a babysitter? “I’ll be fine. I know how to take care of myself.”

“No one knows how to take care of themselves against D’yavol.”

The Devil?

“Up you go, now.” He stood with a wince and rubbed his knee. “I like living too much to harbor you.”

“I can’t leave yet,” I insisted, getting to my feet. “I’m not sure why you think I’m here illegally, but I promise, I have my papers.” I knew Russia was a little medieval, but, God, did they really execute people for such a small offense as harboring a harmless girl?

“Pah. I’m not talking about the government, girl, but D’yavol.”

I stared at him, realizing I might be speaking to a crazy person.

“I’m agnostic,” I said dumbly.

He shook his head and murmured something unintelligible.

My gaze found Vera in the doorway staring at me like I was a piece of furniture that had just moved itself.

They were both crazy.

She dropped the apron she was wringing in her hands and disappeared again. To find her sharpest meat cleaver probably.

“Why is your wife terrified of me just because I look like my mother?”

He eyed me as if I was the strange one. “You do not just look like your mother.” Moving to the fireplace, he pulled down a white sheet that covered a portrait above it. “Girl, you could be her.”

The woman in the picture was frozen in time, leaning against a grand piano. She must have been painted decades ago, but she could be me standing here today. The long blonde hair, the almond shape of her eyes, the tall and elegant form, and the alabaster skin that would never quite tan.

The similarity was so uncanny, goose bumps rose on my arms. She’d looked just like me, yet I didn’t know the simplest things about her. I stared at the portrait until the burn in my heart and the backs of my eyes faded.

“She was a sight, I’ll tell you that.” He rubbed his chin. “But beauty like that is a blessing and a curse . . .” His eyes settled on mine, something heavy and resigned filling them. “It always ends up in the wrong hands.”

A sense of foreboding trailed down my spine. My overactive imagination cast a scene through my head: me, kicking and screaming, while the devil carried me down to hell.

I swallowed the lump in my throat.

I found it odd they kept my mother’s painting on the wall but covered it with a sheet like the beginning of too many haunted house films. Though, maybe Vera just didn’t like to dust.

“When did she die?” I asked.

“Not long after you were born, if I remember right. She got sick and could not get better. This was her home. Your papa could not part with it, so Vera and I take good care of the place for him.”

“My father didn’t live with her?”

He pursed his lips, contrite. “No, girl, your papa was married.”

And there it was. The secret family.

Or, maybe I was the secret.

Was that why he told people I died? So he could live his comfy life here, without me getting in the way?

In the end, I knew that wasn’t true. Papa had been around for more holidays than he was away—until this past year at least.

But knowing he kept something like this from me, that I might have siblings and other family I’d never had a chance to meet . . . The pain hit me in the chest so hard I had to focus on something else, or I wouldn’t be able to breathe. I forced my gaze back to the portrait, noting the dress that had to be from the eighteenth century.

“Why is she dressed like that?”

His eyebrows rose. “You do not know? Your mother was an opera singer. A very . . . beloved one at that. People will remember her, and that is why you need to go home.” He grabbed my bag and ushered me to the door.

“I didn’t even get to drink my coffee,” I protested.

“You do not want the coffee; you want secrets I cannot tell you. Go home, wherever home is, and do not come back.”