Max trailed behind us as we went to Mara’s room, and Gladys filled us in on her treatment. After an accident when I was thirteen, Mara Madison had suffered a traumatic brain injury. Slowly, over the years, she’d shut down further and retreated somewhere deep inside herself, to where I was never sure if she cared or knew I visited.
Still, looking after my mother was my one constant in life, and entering her room now, the smell of her violet and lavender hand lotion comforted me. It was an expensive brand, and I hadn’t been able to buy it for her since high school.
“That smell.” I noticed it as soon as I walked in.
“Oh, that’s Mr. Chernov’s doing. He sent a list of the things that Mrs. Mara liked, and I make sure to keep them around.”
I picked up the familiar pale purple bottle from the bedside. “Kirill remembered this?”
“He did.” Gladys turned and nudged Federica. “I've been telling Mallory he's a keeper right from the start.I wouldn’t let him get away, that’s for sure.”
Federica caught my eye, and I suddenly had the urge to laugh.
“Well, I’m sure Kirill has it covered,” Federica murmured as she went to the bookshelf beside the window. “We’ve been reading this.” She pulled out a slim, classic book and turned it to me. “Should I?”
“That would be nice. I need to do down the hall for a second,” I said, edging toward the door. My curiosity was tugging me too hard to stay still. I’d visit with my mother in a few minutes.
Max turned to me, raising an eyebrow at me. “Where are we going?”
“You know where.”
Together, we walked along the hall as I retraced the steps I’d taken a few months ago.
It had been the first time I had any sort of confirmation that the old Kirill might be inside the brutal bratva boss who had taken me from my shitty life and told me he wanted to own me.
I knocked softly on Fiona Lewis’s door and entered when I heard her rasping, low tone. Max stood outside, on guard and watchful, as I went in.
Fiona’s room was as nice as Mara’s, and it touched me that Kirill considered my mother as important as his. Fiona sat in a floral printed armchair infront of the window. She had knitting on her lap, and music played softly in the background. As soon as I stepped in, her eyes fixed on me, dark and warm.
Kirill’s eyes.
“Well, I’ll be. I was wondering when he’d bring you to see me.” Her voice was rough, which made sense considering how deep she was into lung cancer. Countless operations on her lungs and trachea had taken their toll. Still, as she sat there, with the light shining on her from the window, she looked content.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Lewis,” I said, bobbing awkwardly.
She coughed for a second before pointing to the chair near her. “Call me Fiona, and sit down. Rest a minute.”
I sat, perching on the edge of the seat.
She stared at me, her eyes running over every single inch of me. She nodded, as if satisfied. “I knew he’d find you. I always knew it.”
“How was that?”
“Because some people are drawn to each other. No matter where they are or what they’re doing, they will find each other. I used to eat lunch with a Buddhist lady down the hall, Lina. She said the same people show up in every life, every single time. Their souls are bound somehow. I always thought you and my son were like that. A connection bigger than this life alone.”
I stared at her, dumbfounded by that sweeping, romantic statement.
“Lina would be tickled pink to know she was right.”
“Would be?”
“Oh, she died a while back,” Fiona said, waving her hand with the nonchalance of someone who had fully embraced the fact that death could visit anyone at any time.
I blinked at her, thrown by the swerves in the conversation.
Fiona took a deep breath, and her face turned troubled for a second. “I’m glad you came alone. I wanted to speak to you. I know my son’s not what he was. I know he’s . . . damaged.”
“Please, you don’t have to—"