Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
“It looks like things are going well for you.” Tom presses his elbows to the marble and rakes his hand through the front of his hair. I bite the corner of my mouth when I remember Archie’s rhyme. Tom’s hair does seem thinner than last time we met, but I’m not surprised, given the way he’s pulling at it.
“No thanks to you,” I mutter, pulling a jar of peanut butter from the bag.
“What? No caviar? Don’t tell me your new husband likes peanut butter on his blinis. How subversive.”
His tone chafes like a shoe rubbing at the heel. “Is that your strange version of congratulations?”
The feet of the stool screech against the floor as he abruptly stands. “I can’t believe you fucking married him!”
“And I can’t believe you fucked the nanny in our bed,” I retort, my grip tightening on the glass jar as I’m filled with the insane urge to throw it at his head. “Oh, wait. I do believe it because I walked in on you.”
He rolls his eyes like a balding teenager, sort of, oh, that old chestnut again. I don’t know why I said it. I really don’t care anymore.
“I can’t even think what you’re doing here, Tom.” I put the jar down and press my hip against the countertop, shoving my hands into the pockets of my cardigan. “You should come back when the boys are here. You haven’t seen them in weeks.”
“I haven’t seen them because I’ve had shit to sort out, and how am I supposed to call when he’s here?”
“Do you think I have enjoyed your parade of young girls that have traipsed in and out of our children’s lives? If you don’t like the man I married, that’s not my problem.” I turn back to the bag, my movements jerky as I return to my task. Celery, coriander, radicchio, and vine ripened tomatoes.
“Actually, it is kind of your problem.” I startle as his hand curls around my shoulder, tugging me to face him.
“Get off,” I mutter, forcing his hand away.
“Because you married the man who got me into this shit in the first place.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” How typically Tom. But I suppose it’s easier to blame others for your mistakes than examine your own shortcomings. “I do know the last conversation we had resulted in me being exposed to a Russian criminal. The delightful Mr. Aslanov.” Invoking his name sends a beetle skittering down my spine. Sweeping the vegetables up, I brush past him.
“Worse than Aslanov is his boss? And you just married him.”
My denial hits the air in a thorny laugh. I tug forcibly on the fridge door. “Have you been surfing the dark web, befriending conspiracy theorists?”
“I went to him for money, Iz. I went to London at his invitation, to his fancy office in Mayfair.”
“I know. You went after I had nothing left to give. After Sandy wouldn’t give. I also happen to know Niko didn’t give you money.”
“Niko, is it?” He slides his hands under his arms, almost tipping forward on his toes. “He was very civil. But you’re right, he didn’t invest, but he passed me on to someone else who did. Someone in the organization.”
“Naturally, that means a crime syndicate,” I scoff. Niko is no Boy Scout, but a Russian mobster? A crime boss? No.
“Well, he didn’t refer me to someone at Citibank, did he?”
Something sharp and heavy settles in my stomach.
“The good people at Citibank wouldn’t have dragged me to some warehouse and threatened to cut off my balls if I couldn’t come up with a payment, plus thirty percent interest.”
“Just because they’re Russian, just because Niko is Russian—”
“That’s just it. I’m not reaching. I know I’m not. And I’ve thought long and hard about this. About how, in the past, you’d change the topic of conversation whenever Sandy brought Van’s name up. And how come if he’s Sandy’s best friend, I never met him? Not even once?”
“You haven’t met all Sandy’s friends.”
“In over a decade of watching you play queen of the castle while Sandy fleeced movie moguls and do-gooders in the quest to repair some moth-eaten tapestry or bit of roof? The place was always teeming with his friends and their hangers-on. He might’ve afforded a new roof if he hadn’t spent years feeding them and pouring drinks down their necks.”
“Jealousy is so unbecoming,” I say in my grandmother’s voice.
“But the one person I didn’t meet,” he says, talking over me, “was Nikolai Vanyin. He wasn’t at the castle once. Unless he was there when we weren’t.” A pause. “Which was, when? Never.”
“You’re grasping at straws.” Opening a cupboard, I grab a glass. “Always looking to blame someone else.” At the sink, I keep my gaze on the glass as it fills with water.
“You had a thing, you and him. Before we were married. I see that now.”