“So a solid year ago then?”

“Of course not,” I said, like he was completely off the mark. “A year and a half.”

He smiled. “Ah, my mistake.”

After a beat of silence, I told him, “Moscow’s secrets.” The quiet words filled the room. “I came for its secrets.”

He watched me for a long time—so long, my heart slowed beneath the weight of his gaze—and then he stood and came around his desk. “Do you have somewhere to stay?”

I shook my head.

“I will have Albert find you a room.” With that, he headed to the door.

My manners rebelled against accepting his generosity, but a greater part of me was thankful. My head still hurt, and I didn’t want to wander aimlessly around Moscow looking for a ride and a place to stay. Though something else inside, something curious and breathless, wouldn’t allow him to walk away yet.

I got to my feet and blurted, “Do you have a fondness for opera?”

He stopped and slowly turned to me. “How did you guess?”

It took a moment to realize he was teasing me. I opened my mouth to respond but ended up pulling my bottom lip between my teeth to hold in the genuine amusement. His eyes flicked to my lips for just a second, and my pulse dropped into a vat of gasoline and fire.

I swallowed. “Do you happen to know of an opera house nearby?” I wasn’t going home without knowing more about my mother and her family. Maybe I could find some information at her previous place of employment.

“There are several, but the Moskovskiy is the closest.”

“The Moskovskiy,” I repeated, so I would remember it.

“It’s not in the best part of town anymore.”

His restaurant wasn’t exactly in the best part either, but I didn’t voice the thought.

Ronan regarded me for a second, and, seeing the determination on my face, something obscure clouded his eyes. “I will take you. Tonight, at eight.”

Then he left me without another word, and I couldn’t help but think . . .

Maybe Moscow wasn’t so bad after all.

dépaysement

(n.) when someone is taken out of their own familiar world into a new one

“No, really, I can pay for my own room.”

Albert was obviously hard of hearing because his stoic expression didn’t falter as he walked down the hotel hall with my bag in his hand. I trailed two steps behind the giant, struggling to keep up with him.

I knew he understood English. On the way over, I touched the window while taking in the sights, and through the rearview mirror, he looked at me like I’d just slapped his favorite grandma and grumbled at me to not smudge the glass. He’d be handsome if he wiped away that scowl and didn’t shave his head like he was just released from prison. Though, with that attitude, I could only assume he was.

After driving me to a swanky hotel, he handed the straight-faced concierge a wad of cash. The older man didn’t ask a single question before sliding a shiny room key into Albert’s hand. It looked like a drug deal. Or a bribe. I couldn’t be privy to Albert’s illegal activities no matter how things were done here.

“Listen, I just want to pay for my room,” I said, slightly out of breath when I finally caught up to him. “I’m sure you have lots of other things to spend your money on. Giant underpants can’t come cheap.”

He almost appeared amused. Or constipated? I couldn’t be sure.

“The boss is paying for it,” he groused.

“The boss” sounded a little too formal and weird. But then I would be the last person to know about an employer’s correct title. The only job I’d ever had was volunteer work.

“You know, you don’t look like an Albert,” I told him.

Not a blink.

“I’m just saying, when someone says ‘Albert,’ expectations are formed. Old men with cheerful personalities, to be exact. You’ve crushed those expectations, Albert.”

He stopped in front of room 203.

“I’d peg you as more of an . . . Igor.”

His lips pulled into the slightest frown as he slid the key into the lock and pushed the door open. Naturally, I followed him inside.

“It’s okay to show your feelings, Igor. We all have them.”

He dropped my bag near the queen-size bed.

“Not to mention, men who cry? Hot.”

The disgusted look on his face was comical, and I bit my lip to stifle a smile as he passed me on the way to the door.

“Will I see you later?”

He grunted and slammed it shut behind him.

With a sigh, I turned to take in the room. The alarm clock near the bed said it was only nine in the morning. All of a sudden, the jet lag and everything else hit me like a semi-truck. I needed to let Ivan know I was okay—and I kind of missed his voice—but I was too tired to figure out how to dial out on the hotel phone, so it would have to wait.

I took a shower and scrubbed my skin raw. In a towel, I padded back into my room and dug through my bag for some clothes. A muffled commotion on the street drew my attention to the window. Outside, a bicyclist argued with a disgruntled taxi driver, who threw his hands in the air when the teenage delivery boy hurled a newspaper at his car. I started to turn away, but something else caught my eye.

A black car sat parked on the side of the street. Tattooed fingers hung out of the window ashing a cigarette before the unfamiliar man brought it back to his mouth. I’d never met a man with inked hands before coming here.

Must be a Russian thing.

Lethargy pulled on my limbs, so I fell into bed without a stitch of clothing on and was dead to the world for a solid three hours. When I awoke, it was with a groan and a piece of still-damp hair in my mouth.

Removing the tags from a new pair of bell-bottom jeans and a vintage T-shirt, I smiled as I slipped them on. They fit me well, caressing my body with a cotton form of freedom. Next, I dried and straightened my hair, applied some strawberry lip gloss, and donned the heavy cardigan I wore in place of a coat on the way here.

The cold sucked the air from my lungs as I headed across the street to the nearest convenience store to buy a disposable phone. Maybe it was the lack of winter apparel, but I stuck out like a sore thumb. Eyes followed my movements, and I got cat-called twice. Not an odd thing growing up in Miami, but I thought someone even took my picture.

The attention made me wonder about my mother—if she really was so famous here, and why my papa hid it from me. He didn’t like to talk about her. I assumed it hurt too much, so I never had the heart to press the matter. But one would think he could share something with me. The fact she was a well-known opera singer maybe . . .

With a new phone in hand, I dialed Ivan’s number.

He answered immediately, his voice cautious. “Hello?”

“Hi, Ivan. It’s me.”

“Mila,” he breathed. “Gde ty, chert voz’mi?” Where the hell are you?

I had an apology on my tongue, but the fact the relief in his voice was so palpable like he had no faith in me at all—even though he was annoyingly accurate in this case—stopped it from escaping.

“Relax.” I shivered and tightened my cardigan around me. “I’m fine.”

“I have been worried sick about you,” he snapped.