“Your complaint is noted.”
“It’s not a complaint, Pavel.”
Just like that, we’re back to square one. Will we ever get past this nonsense? This useless cycling? We’re like vultures fighting over roadkill. It’s hardly sustenance. But it’s all we seem to know.
I adjust my tie, step into my wingtips, and kneel to tie the laces. “I’ll be back for dinner.”
“I won’t wait up.”
Without another word, I leave. Her mood swings are unpredictable. She’s either lusting after me or hating my guts.
Maybe it’s just a phase. All those pregnancy hormones could be influencing her.
I slide my hand into my pocket to grab the wedding band.
But if it’s not…
I swallow hard and descend to the foyer. Stepan stands when he sees me, buttoning his blazer as he steps toward me. “Dubriy utro, Pavel Sergeyevich.”
“Dubriy utro.”
“Coffee?”
I nod and drift after him, refusing to take my hand out of my pocket. “I’m heading to Manhattan. I need you to call in a weapons order.”
He prepares a pot of coffee and procures his phone. As I rattle off a list of guns, I trace the circular band in my pocket with my thumb. The metal isn’t cold anymore. But it doesn’t quite feel warm either.
Stepan hands me a mug. A few sips bring me to life, relieving the tension between my hand and my pocket temporarily.
Until I do it again on the way to the door.
“I’m leaving you in charge of the equipment,” I tell Stepan as I grab the car keys. “The latest in digital SLR cameras. Business cards. Outfits. The works.”
He nods. “Yes, Pavel Sergeyevich.”
“I’ll be back for dinner.”
“What would you like tonight?”
I disarm the security system, open the door, and step toward the sandy porch. “Steak.”
“And Liya?”
My throat pinches as I swallow. “You’ll have to ask her.”
I shut the door. I step into the driveway. It takes me a minute to notice I’m standing next to the car with the key in my hand without making any effort to get into the vehicle.
I shake myself out of the funk.
This isn’t the time. I unlock the car, slide in, start the engine.Later. I’ll think about it later.
My heart thuds in my chest as I back out of the driveway. It takes more strength than usual to keep my eyes on the rear-view mirror. There’s nothing on the road behind me. But that’s not exactly my concern. Every muscle in my body strains against my control.
It wants to turn. It wants to check the second-floor window.
I don’t. I resist just enough to make it down the street.
It takes the rest of my strength to keep driving without looking back.