“What about Michael Jordan?” she says, raising an eyebrow at me. “Isn’t he from here?”

“No poster—but I do have one of his cards.”

I show her my 1987 Fleer basketball card, encased in Lucite.

“Are those worth a fortune now?” she asks me.

“Some are—not this one. But I thought it was pretty fucking cool when I was a kid.”

Most of my old furniture is still here, exactly as it used to be. Including my twin bed, which I used to sleep on with my feet hanging off the end. I feel like Yelena and I are both looking at the neatly-tucked-in covers pulled tightly across the mattress. A funny tension arises between us.

I’m thinking how that youthful version of myself would have died to see a girl this gorgeous in my bedroom.

I’m not sure what Yelena is thinking.

We’ve kissed on every one of our dates, but neither of us has pushed it further yet. I’m trying to be respectful of her strict family situation. Despite my discipline, every time I get near her, I’m dying to put my hands all over her.

To distract myself, I say, “Let me show you the music room.”

My mother’s music room is on the top floor of the house. It’s one of the prettiest and most sunlit spaces, with large colored-glass windows on three sides.

Her piano is a gorgeous Steinway—mahogany brown, the wood carved with scrolls and curlicues, flowers and vines. The room still smells faintly of her perfume and the papery scent of sheet music.

Yelena approaches the piano with an air of awe.

“It’s a beautiful instrument,” she says.

“We have it tuned every year,” I tell her. “So it should sound alright.”

She hesitates next to the plush leather bench, and I say, “Go ahead, sit down.”

Watching her slide into place gives me a chill.

The way that Yelena sits down, and the way Aida does, are completely different. Yelena sits with the same perfect upright posture my mother always had, with her lovely slim hands poised above the keys in exactly the same way.

They don’t look alike—my mother was dark-haired, and Yelena fair. But I can tell at once that Yelena is a skilled musician, much as she downplays it.

Her fingers gently press the keys, testing the sound. The notes ring out clean and clear, echoing around this corner space with its vaulted ceilings.

Yelena starts to play from memory.

Her hands move flawlessly across the keys, no stumbling or hesitation. There’s a flow to her playing, there’s feeling. Her eyes are closed, and I can almost watch the music pour directly from her brain, down her arms, through her fingers.

I’ve never heard the song before. It reminds me of a cool, rainy night, or of a person searching for something lost. As she plays, images rise up before my eyes and fade away again: light reflected on glass. Empty city streets. And the way my mother’s hands used to move smoothly like that, when playing the piano, or when tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

I’m startled when Yelena stops, the song finished.

“What was that called?” I ask her.

“It’s called “Naval,” by Yann Tiersen,” she says.

Naval—Yann Tiersen (Spotify)

Naval—Yann Tiersen (Apple)

“What else do you want to hear?” she asks me.

“Play me something Russian,” I say.

Yelena starts to play something light and rapid, that somehow conjures the feeling of snowflakes swirling down, and maybe a music-box ballerina twirling slowly on a stand. It’s wistful and plaintive.

Once Upon a December—Emile Pandolfi (Spotify)

Once Upon a December—Emile Pandolfi (Apple)

“What’s that?” I ask her.

She laughs softly. “It’s not really Russian,” she says. “It’s from an old, animated movie—Anastasia. It’s about one of the Romanov daughters. In the movie, she survives the revolution, but she hits her head and loses her memory. Later she realizes she’s the missing princess and is reunited with some of her family.”

She plays the refrain of the song, very lightly.

“I loved that movie . . .” she says. “I thought how incredible it would be to find out you were a princess. To be plucked out of your old life, into a new one . . .”

In a way, Yelena is a princess. A mafia princess. But I know that’s not what she’s talking about.

“Is it a true story?” I ask her.

“No. She was shot along with the rest of her family, and her body was thrown down a mineshaft. It was confirmed with DNA testing not too long ago. That’s why real life isn’t a movie.”

Yelena stops playing. Her hands drop down into her lap.

“One more,” I ask her. “Play me something you wrote.”

Her cheeks flush pink. I think she’ll refuse. But after a moment, she lifts her hands again, delicately pressing her fingers to the piano keys.

Yelena’s song is the most beautiful of all. I don’t know anything about music, so I can’t describe why or how it has such an effect on me. It starts slowly, subtly. Then it builds and builds, with a pull like an undertow, dragging me under. The music swirls all around the room, filling every bit of space from floor to ceiling. It’s wild and haunting, melancholic but insistent. It’s something inside of her calling out to something inside of me, demanding that I listen. Demanding that I understand.

When she stops, I can’t tell if she’s been playing for a minute or an hour.

“That was incredible,” I say.

My words seem weak compared to what she just did. She expressed something powerful, and I can’t match it with a compliment.

All I can do is say, “I’m stunned, seriously. You wrote that?”

“Yes,” Yelena says with a shyness that I’ve never seen in her before. “You really liked it?”

“Of course I did.”

“My father says everything I play is depressing.”

“Well . . . I wasn’t going to say anything. But I’m starting to think your dad might be a bit of a dick.”

Yelena snorts out a laugh, from behind those slim, supremely talented fingers.

She fixes me with her gorgeous eyes, the color of the sky right before it darkens.

“He’s dangerous,” she tells me seriously. “Very dangerous, Sebastian. He has resentments. Ambitions.”

“I know what he is,” I tell her. “That’s why I didn’t call you that first week. I wanted to, believe me. But I know this isn’t exactly safe for either of us.”

She drops her eyes and bites the corner of her lip.

“If he’s alright with us dating, he can’t be that pissed,” I tell her. “Maybe we can bury all those past resentments. Move on, make some kind of a deal. After all, if my family can make peace with the Griffins . . .” I wince, thinking of the sound of my knee shattering. “If we can do that, then anybody can learn to get along.”

She doesn’t answer me right away, twisting her hands in her lap. She looks upset. Maybe she thinks I’m too optimistic, and her father is sure to lash out eventually.

“Hey,” I say, grabbing her chin and tilting her face up so she has to look at me. “Don’t worry about me. I told you, I can take care of myself. I can handle your father if I have to. I’ve been up against worse.”