Hands Off Time Is Over

I jogged up the steps to Emma’s apartment, taking them two at a time. I had felt good for two days and intended to enjoy another two before contacting my father. It had been forty-eight uninterrupted hours of peace and careful hope. So really, I should have known something was coming.

I turned down the hall that led to the apartment, still sweaty from the gym, bag over one shoulder, and then I stopped dead.

There was a man in front of Emma’s door.

I recognized him. Not by face, but by type. He was huge, a couple of inches taller than me but bulkier, wearing a black suit and sunglasses. He was the sort of man who shadowed every step my father took. You call them bodyguards. We call them byki—bulls.

There was only one reason for such a man to exist anywhere near Emma’s apartment and it made every drop of blood in my body turn to ice as the bag slumped down my arm. My father was here.

Then, just as quickly, a spark of anger lit inside me, boiling the ice in my veins. He ignored me for weeks, months if you excluded the one cryptic email, and then he just appears? Not even to talk to me, but to ambush Emma, unprepared and alone and no doubt still trying to be polite?

Absolutely fucking not.

I stormed to the door. The guard, who was a professional and no doubt clocked my arrival and hesitation, took one look at my face and turned to reach for the door handle.

“Ne trogai eto,” I growled, and he paused. Shrugged. Stepped aside, returned to his watchful pose. I took a sharp breath and turned the knob, resisting the urge to slam the door open.

Inside, I found my father seated in the middle of the couch while Emma sat in her comfy chair, the one she curled up in to read every day. But she was sitting stiffly, and he was leaning forward over his legs. I don’t know what expressions they had worn, but when their heads swiveled to me, my father’s face was blank. Emma’s was melting into relief.

“Father,” I said, unable to keep my temper entirely in check. “How nice of you to visit.” My eyes flickered to Emma again.

“You’re back,” she said, pushing herself out of the armchair and trotting to meet me at the door, taking my bag and kissing me firmly on the cheek.

“Mikhail,” Father said, rising slowly. “It’s good to see you after so long.” He took two steps towards me and waited, expecting me to close the distance and greet him. I folded my arms and glared instead. His eyes narrowed, then he put on a pained expression. “Look at my son, Miss Reeves, he does not even come to hug the father who came all this way to see him.”

Her face went cold, morphing into an expression I had never once seen on her face before. Whatever they had talked about before I arrived, she was not trying to be polite now. “V chuzhoy monastyr’ so svoim ustavom ne khodyat,” she told him.

Don’t bring your own rulebook to the monastery. It was one of Nana’s favorites. No doubt Emma had picked it up when someone had asked for salt to add to a dish or something equally petty. Now she was weaponizing it against my father, her careful pronunciation making even his eyes go a tiny bit wider.

Moya korolevochka. She knows how to assert herself when she wants to. My little queen, standing up to a dragon.

I snorted and felt some of the tension ease from my shoulders, her sense of control feeding mine. I pulled her to me and kissed her forehead, then released her as I set about kicking my shoes off. “So, Father, why have you come all this way?”

“A father does not need a reason to visit his only son,” he said, his composure never lost for long. From another parent it might have sounded warm, but from him, it was a declaration of authority.

“At the home of the son’s girlfriend that he’s never met? A reason is not much to ask, don’t you think?” I retorted, finally joining him near the couch and offering him the back-clapping embrace men call a hug. I pulled away and settled into the seat closest to Emma’s chair, but she didn’t return there, looking from me to him with her sharp eyes.

“I’m going to do dishes in the kitchen,” she declared as my father sat next to me. “Very loudly. And then make dinner.” She paused on her way to the kitchen. “But I’m just a shout away if you need me,” she added lightly, looking pointedly at me. I nodded, and she slipped into the kitchen area.

“So,” I said in Russian as the sounds of running water and clinking dishes began. “Why are you really here, Father?”

He waved off the question. “You know why.”

“To check out my girlfriend?” I suggested, sinking into my habitual flippancy, knowing it wasn’t productive. “I don’t think you’re her type.”

“Mikhail,” he warned. Then he sighed theatrically, like he was indulging me. “I want to hear what it is you’re trying to tell me with all this flailing around with your little friends.”

“My brothers,” I stressed, sitting up straighter. “I—” I paused, forced myself to take a breath and focus. He’d said it dismissively because he wanted to see if he could make me mad. No, he knew I was mad—he wanted to see if I could control it.

Emma clattered away in the kitchen. I was not just rebelling against his plans for me anymore, not just resisting something I did not want. I was fighting for something I did want.

I swallowed down the irritation and started over. “I want to stay here,” I said flatly. “I think I could do more for us here in America than I could as just another flunky for you in Moscow.” That “us” left a sour taste in my mouth.

He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “How thoughtful of you. My rebellious son, who has never once bent himself to any of my causes,” he said, the words dripping with irony. “Don’t insult my intelligence, Mikhail. I know why you want to stay, and it isn’t for the family’s benefit.” He glanced towards the kitchen, just long enough for me to see.

“And what do you care if I’m happy, as long as it does benefit you?” I argued. “Unless you—” Unless you care more about making me miserable than about your ‘cause,’ I wanted to say. But I stopped, breathed again, even tried that cliche counting-to-five trick. I needed to stop acting like the child he expected me to be. “I can make a good case,” I said instead. Still curt, but better.

My father caught my change in tone and gave a nod that was almost approving. “Alright,” he said. “Tell me everything. Why is letting you stay a better investment for me than dragging you home?”

Moscow had not been my home for almost four years. Not since he’d threatened Dariya to get to me.

But I didn’t say that.

I was not prepared for this talk. Had assumed even after reaching out he would make me wait a pointed week before finding time for a phone call. And yet…while I was trying to suppress another flare of anger, a new thought came to my mind.

Why had he come? And so soon after the Calloway summit.

He would not come all the way here to tell me his plans had not changed. Did not need to talk to me about it at all. If he wanted, could have stalled right up to graduation. He could have cut off my bank account. He could have seen to it that my visa was invalidated.

Instead, he was here, in person, asking me to explain myself.

Bozhe moy.

He was interested.

That in itself felt like a miracle, but the discovery that he had tipped his hand—that once I took a moment to see him instead of fight him I had the potential to figure him out? That hit even harder.

This must be how Emma feels, I thought, the way she could see through people.

I told him about the plans I had set in motion. I babbled at first, unfocused, but gradually found my footing. I emphasized the medical testing with Jacob—the most immediate opportunity—while dangling longer-term possibilities with Parker-Smith in oil, maybe even with Calloway Global. I detailed the Sigma network, like Marcus Bellamy and his senator. I used all of it as the colors to paint a picture of highly-placed, subtle influence in American industry.

He listened to me intently, more so than I think he had ever done in my life. In fairness, I had tried to be as annoying as possible. But as I explained, he was making comments that were not just insults. He was asking questions. It felt like I was in a mirror world.

I hated that some part of me basked in the attention.

Emma stayed in the kitchen, which would probably have annoyed her under any other circumstance. But despite studying, she didn’t have enough Russian to follow our quiet conversation, so she had turned her attention to dinner. The smell of beef simmering with garlic and onions was just beginning to waft through the apartment when my father sat back in his chair, bouncing his knee thoughtfully.

“So?” I prompted him. “What do you think? Surely it’s worth giving me one measly year to try.”

He offered me a searching look. “I don’t know,” he said. My heart felt like it fell six feet because any time he didn’t say yes, he almost always meant no. “You’ve spent four years doing nothing before now, Mikhail. Longer. Why should I believe that you can keep up this performance?”

Inside I was fighting off hopelessness, but I arched my brow with as much confidence as I could. “Petrushka lives for the stage.”

Then my father did something very strange. He looked surprised for a moment, and then he smiled.

Not the cold smile that meant you were doing exactly what he expected you to do, not the blank one that meant he didn’t want you to know what he thought at all. Just…a smile, a little fond, a little sad.

“I forgot your grandmother called you that,” he said with a soft chuckle. I tried not to gawk as he clapped his hands on his knees and rose to his feet, giving a nonchalant stretch. “I will think about it, Mikhail,” he said in English then, and I heard Emma’s stirring in the kitchen pause.

“Do you plan to stay for dinner, Mr. Sokolov?” She called out, her nervousness overcoming her reluctance. “I’m making solyanka for the first time, so I can’t promise how good it’ll be, but there should be enough for three.”

His face went bland again. “No, no, Miss Reeves. You have been a gracious hostess, but I have imposed on you enough,” he said, returning to English.

“Are you sure?” I blurted. I didn’t want him to leave if he wasn’t convinced. “Emma’s a good cook.”

“I’m sure,” he said, giving me another warning look. “Walk me to the door, Mikhail.”

I did, walking as slowly as I could. If he left without saying yes, it was all over. My heart beat in triple time. “How is Dasha?” I asked suddenly as he slipped on his polished loafers.

His gaze turned shrewd. “She’s well,” he said, then switched back to Russian. “But you are stalling, Mikhail. It’s cowardly.”

Blyat. “You’re the one putting off a decision,” I snapped back. “So who’s really the coward?”

I did not even have time to regret lashing out before his hand reached for the back of my neck, a gesture that might have looked like affection but was actually ownership. “Don’t. Lose. Your. Temper,” he said quietly. Then he released me, patting my neck. “I think this girl has been good for you. But I don’t want to let this go on too long.”

“You don’t need to think about her,” I said, not loud but through gritted teeth. “She isn’t your concern. I am.”

“You brought her into this,” he said mildly. Then, he chuckled at what was probably a stormy expression on my face. “She has fire, Mikhail, I see it. And she is smart,” he mused. “You don’t suppose she would come to Russia for you?”

The remainder of my hard-won patience was faltering and I sputtered. “I would not even ask that of her.”

He nodded as if he expected my answer. “I had a girl like that once, too, you know.” A wave of consternation swept away my frustration. I could count on one hand the times my father had spoken of his youth. “Don’t look at me like that,” he scoffed. “Yes, I had a girl with fire like this one. But fires die out, Mikhail.” He shrugged. “Sokolov men are ice. Fire may melt us for a while, but even flame will drown.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I asked, the question laced with suspicion.

“It means I couldn’t keep her,” he said in a hushed voice, so quiet I had to strain to hear it. “I was young, foolish, and weak, like you are now. So I lost her,” he said. Then he straightened, his voice returning to normal. “And because I did, I learned how to hold on to what’s mine, and what illusions to let go. Just as you will.”

Illusions.

Life with Emma was the most solid ground I had ever felt under my feet, and he reduced it to an illusion.

I squared my shoulders and stepped closer, looking him dead in the eyes and speaking as quietly as he had. “I am not you, Father. I am not weak.” I gripped his upper arm, not hard but insistent, and leaned in, watching his eyes stay studiously neutral even as I did. “She’s part of what makes me strong.”

He held my gaze, unblinking. Not in wonder, not quite in judgment either. He looked at me like a man trying to read a book that was suddenly written in a new dialect, familiar but different. Then he released his stare, and I released his shoulder.

“Are you sure? That she makes you strong…not vulnerable?” He asked slowly, pointedly. “Vulnerabilities have a way of catching up with a man.” He tilted his head with a meaningful look. A threat.

I wanted to grab him by the lapels and slam his face into the door before letting him even think of using Emma against me the way he used Dasha.

But it was bait. I knew it was bait, and kept my clenched fists at my sides, barely.

“If I hadn’t met her,” I said, with slow, careful words, “I would be letting you make me miserable instead of standing toe-to-toe with you.”

Whatever answer he expected, that one surprised him. After a moment, he clicked his tongue skeptically, turned to the door. Turned back to me. Looked me up and down. It felt like a performance. Finally, he shook his head again and sighed heavily. Dramatically. “Alright, Mikhail. Alright. Take your year, and we’ll see who is right.”

My jaw dropped and I gaped openly. “Really?”

This was one surprise too far. Even though I’d been fighting for this for months, having it in my grasp felt unreal.

He raised his eyes to the ceiling as if in prayer that he would not regret this, then looked back to me. “Yes. Really. But,” he said, straightening his jacket while I girded myself for his caveats. “This is not a continuation of the same deal. It’s a new one.” He gave me a warning glower. “Hands off time is over. I’ll expect regular updates. I’ll expect progress. I’ll expect you to follow orders, Mikhail.”

I nodded, my throat suddenly dry. Emma and I had avoided talking about it, but we had both known that if this worked, I would have to become the sort of man my father wanted. At least outwardly. Our future depended on it, and Dasha’s. Still, doing his bidding for a few years was a vast improvement over a life sentence.

I just had to make sure I did not lose my soul in the meantime.

He smiled thinly, like he was reading my mind. “I am pleased with these beginnings, Mikhail, and with your Emma for inspiring them,” he said with a meaningful glance towards the kitchen. She was invisible from the entryway, but from the silence in the room, I know she was trying to listen. “You need time to sharpen those new skills before you’re ready for Moscow at any rate.” He turned back to me with a triumphant gleam in his eyes. “But I knew they were there, Mikhail, no matter how you tried to hide them.”

That sent a chill through me, one that pierced through my shock at this turn of events. I had thought of this maneuver as a rebellion for so long, I hadn’t considered how it could play right into his hands.

No. I would not let it. I’d spend the entire year stacking my deck in our favor first.

“Thank you again, Miss Reeves,” he called back into the apartment, the English words heavy with meaning. “It was excellent to meet you.”

Emma poked her head out from the kitchen with a worried attempt at a smile. “It was nice to meet you too, Mr. Sokolov,” she lied. “Safe travels.”

He nodded graciously at her and gestured for me to open the door for him, which I did. His bodyguard was still standing outside right where I left him, and my father told him to have the car brought around. Then he turned back to me and shook my hand, clapping my shoulder, every bit as paternal as he had never felt. “I look forward to watching your progress, Mikhail,” he said in Russian.

Then he was gone, marching down the dim little hallway as confidently as if he was walking from his own office.

I closed the door slowly and leaned my forehead against it, still absorbing what had just happened.

“What did he say?” Emma asked, and when I turned to her she was hugging herself, one hand pulling nervously at her earlobe.

I stepped over to her and took that hand in mine, tugging it away from her ear. “He said yes,” I told her.

She stared, clearly expecting the opposite. Then gripped my hand tightly. “Yes?”

“Yes,” I repeated, finally letting a smile warm my face, a real one, just for her.

She stared for a second longer before she made an adorable squeaking noise that reminded me of the first night I saw her, and then she threw herself at me. I grabbed her and lifted her up and just held her there because I could not stand not to. I buried my face in her neck, inhaled sharply. “It’s—not the same deal,” I said, swaying with her. “He wants updates, progress. But he said yes, Emma. One year.”

She nodded against me and I felt her tremble. She was overwhelmed the way she sometimes gets, and I held her through it and told her everything he’d said while she regained her composure.

“He said—he said he’d had a girl with fire before,” I marveled as she loosened her grip enough to look up at me, a tear running down one cheek. I wiped it away. “That’s what he called you. A girl with fire. Smart.”

“I don’t think he liked me throwing Dostoevsky at him,” she said in a choked voice. I snickered and then laughed, and then we were both laughing in each other’s arms.

“You did that? Ha!” I said after we both caught our breath. “He said he was glad you ‘inspired’ me. That I needed to sharpen my skills before Moscow anyway.” My joy faltered as I stroked her wrist with my thumb. “That Sokolov men drown fires eventually.”

Emma was undaunted. “He’s making excuses to save face,” she predicted. She reached up to frame my face with her soft hands. “You’re not just a Sokolov. Or a Petrushka. You’re Misha.”

I pressed my forehead to hers. “I’m Misha,” I agreed. “And you are moya koroleva.”

She leaned in and kissed me and I let go of all the night’s anger, fear, and frustration and kissed her back, pouring every ounce of triumph into the embrace.

There would be work to do. It was a stay of execution, not absolution.

But for one year, it would be victory.

Author’s Note

B-Side Track: Tchaikovsky & L’Orchestra Cinematique – 1812 Overture Epic Trailer Version

SURPRISE TIMING!

There’s a lot going on here and I’ve tried to avoid unpacking too much of everything for you. But Misha’s done a lot of growing, he’s learned a lot from Emma, and he’s finally grown enough to start to see his father as a human being, not an immutable force…even if his father would rather he didn’t.

And that’s how he won. At least this round.

FUN FACT:

I originally attached Muse’s “Butterflies and Hurricanes” to this chapter, but eventually replaced it because it was a little too melodramatic for the moment. But Misha probably still feels a little that way inside.

Wow. I can’t believe any of y’all stuck with me for 32 chapters. We’re almost done (for now)! But don’t worry, I’m not gonna make you wait for the epilogue. 🙂 Read on, nightingales.