James
6 years ago.
Two weeks.
Fourteen nights of frost lacing the window panes, of Moscow's white sprawl stretching endless and indifferent beyond glass. And still — no father. The address written on the paper was a deserted building. Nothing. No leads. No answers.
But her.
God, her.
That was the problem.
I hadn't meant to chase her like this. Hadn't meant to memorize the cut of her mouth when she spoke, or the sound of her boots on polished marble floors. But it was impossible not to. Like trying to forget a knife pressed to your throat.
"Nico," Mikhail called from the library doorway, Russian thicker than his vodka but clean enough for me to catch it now. Mikhael has a library from an additional dwelling, connected to his living room, another big space that makes me think again how he got this much property.
