How Nice Of You To Visit

I knew who he was immediately by his eyes. The color was lighter than Misha’s, more stormy-grey, but the shape was the same…except without any sign of Misha’s spark or his big, buoyant heart.

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” I asked, tilting my head and smiling as blankly as I could. What are you doing? He’s not going to fall for that. But Misha’s not here. Stall, stall, stall. Misha was at the gym. He probably wouldn’t be back for another twenty minutes. We’d planned to make dinner together.

Mr. Sokolov raised one greying eyebrow, the chilly smile quirking upward in a smirk that could have been triumphant or predatory.

“Of course, I’m being rude,” he said, holding out his hand. “My name is Konstanin Sokolov. I am Mikhail’s father.”

“Oh!” I made the required show of recognition, accepting his hand gently. “Gosh, he didn’t tell me you were going to be in town. He isn’t here, but he will be soon,” I chirped, then regretted it. You should have said you didn’t know, used the excuse to call him.

Too late now.

I opened the door a little wider. “Would you like to come in?”

“That is very kind of you, Miss Reeves,” he said politely, as though forcing the invitation wasn’t the entire purpose of this little surprise. Misha had finally told me more about his father over the last few months, but even if he hadn’t, I think I would have been able to sniff out the scheming intent beneath that patient look. I glanced over his shoulder at the burly man, who looked like he had stepped out of a movie. Huge. Sunglasses. Earpiece. He held a box of chocolates in his hands.

Mr. Sokolov followed my gaze and gestured at the man, a simple twirl of his finger. The bodyguard handed Mr. Sokolov the chocolates, then turned and stood at attention outside my door without a word. I stepped back and let Misha’s father in, looking at the guard’s massive back one last time before closing the door. Click.

When I turned back, Mr. Sokolov was already removing his shoes and putting them neatly next to the pile by the door. Oh god, Misha has three pairs there. I watched him make note of them, file away how much time Misha must spend here. His calculating look reminded me of Adrian, oddly, except Mr. Sokolov smothered it quickly, while Adrian wore his calculating nature proudly. My uninvited guest stood and smiled thinly, waiting for me to play hostess.

A Russian billionaire standing in a shoebox apartment. I found myself fighting a sudden bubble of irrational laughter. How absurd.

“Please, have a seat,” I offered, gesturing at the couch. At least you cleaned a little. Books and records were still scattered around the space, along with more signs of Misha—his business textbooks, another laptop next to mine, a half-eaten box of oreshki that Nana had made for us after Misha begged her to. But I kept the couch clean enough for dinner or a cuddle. “Can I get you something to drink? Water, coffee? Tea?”

“Coffee would be lovely,” he answered, taking the center seat of the couch. He sat with a casual grace, as easily as if he were in his own study. “Ah,” he made a little admonishing sound, ostensibly to himself, then held out the chocolates to me. “In Russia, it’s customary to offer the hostess a gift,” he explained. “Doubly so, when I am imposing without notice.”

“Oh, that’s so sweet!” I cooed, taking the box and padding into the kitchen. Mr. Sokolov’s eyes followed me intently. How long can I drag this out? I thought as I pulled down Misha’s instant Turkish coffee and the only mug I owned without a sassy saying on it. Topics. I need topics. Weather? Moscow? Misha as a child? No, definitely not that. My mind buzzed, formulating a list of safe, small talk topics as the coffee brewed. My first gambit was travel.

“It must have been a long flight,” I remarked as I waited for the water to heat in its kettle. “I hope it was a smooth ride?”

“Yes, it’s ten hours from Moscow, give or take,” he confirmed. “And it was indeed smooth, thank you. Although it is much easier when one takes a private jet rather than commercial.”

He wants you to be impressed. I was impressed, though, so I reacted accordingly, oohing and asking pointless questions about the luxury of it all while I prepped the coffee and arranged his chocolates on a serving plate. When I joined him in the living room, I decided to sit in the armchair that was usually part of my reading nook.

This was my castle, and I wasn’t ceding it without a fight.

He watched me pull it over and sit, but didn’t comment, lifting the coffee mug to his lips instead. I took a breath and grabbed another topic off my mental list. “Tell me what Moscow’s like! I’ve only heard about it from Mis—Mikhail’s perspective,” I said with a vague gesture.

“I’m sure it was not a glowing review,” he said with a dismissive scoff, setting the coffee back down. “My son has never respected his city of origin, Miss Reeves.”

I thought back to what Misha said the night we met. Power, politics, and ugly anger. But I just shrugged, trying for a puzzled look. “He told me Moscow is lovely in the spring.”

Mr. Sokolov’s smile didn’t dim, but his gaze sharpened. “It is,” he affirmed. “But somehow, I think that is not all he said, Miss Reeves.”

“I…he said it’s powerful,” I ventured, already casting about for a safer topic to segue towards.

But Misha’s father wasn’t going to let me pivot. “He does not wish to return,” he said quietly. “But he will, Miss Reeves. He must.”

I froze, the flimsy mask of the clueless girlfriend slipping. What would Misha want me to say? I wracked my brain for a response. I even tried to think of what Adrian would have said. But in the end, what slipped from my mouth was the thing I wanted to say: “Why?”

Mr. Sokolov tilted his head to the side and twitched his lips thoughtfully, a gesture so like Misha’s it almost hurt. “It is in his blood,” he said after a moment. “He thinks I am forcing him into a cage, but I am harnessing his potential.”

“That’s still a harness,” I couldn’t help retorting sharply, then regretted it as Mr. Sokolov’s cold smile turned into a smirk.

“Ah, there is the fire,” he said indulgently. “Ne myshka, a lisa.” Not a mouse, but a fox.

Well…in for a penny, in for a pound. “You came when you knew he wasn’t here,” I observed. “What do you want to tell me, Mr. Sokolov?”

“Hmm,” he grunted at the accusation. “’Harness’ was perhaps the wrong word,” he conceded. “But these things my son is doing, these…efforts he is making,” he waved his hand dismissively. “Only prove my point. He is born for this work.” His eyes narrowed. “I am grateful to you for coaxing it from him, Miss Reeves. But I will not let you hold him back, however pretty or clever you might be.”

With the words out in the open, the room felt ten degrees colder.

“I’m not holding him back,” I said carefully. “I’m supporting his choice.”

“He has no choice,” Mr. Sokolov answered nonchalantly, as if denying someone’s autonomy was natural. Maybe to him it was. “It is perhaps too grand to call it destiny. But he belongs in Russia. Not here. Not with you.”

I gripped the arm of my chair with one hand, the other drifting to my collarbone, but I wasn’t wearing the necklace. Which was probably for the best. Instead, I rested my hand over my thumping heart. What could I possibly say to a man who was that confident?

Is there anything you can say that’s even safe?

I thought for a long moment before I found my voice, and when I did, I knew I was pushing the limit. “Mr. Sokolov, are you familiar with the philosophical concept of ‘bad faith’?”

Mr. Sokolov raised an eyebrow. “I am not,” he said, a little tersely.

“It’s an existentialist concept that people only deny having choices in life because choices mean responsibility.” I met his stare as boldly as I could. “I’ve always understood it to be a very Russian idea. Dostoevsky was one of the fathers of existentialism, of course.”

He took a beat, then snorted. “She brings Dostoevsky to the table,” he said with a chuckle. “Yes, Miss Reeves, he was. And Tolstoy, too. If you’ve read them well, then you must know this.” His voice turned frigid. “Dostoevsky’s work showed that pure freedom leads to destruction. That suffering is necessary in life.” He set his coffee mug down and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “If you want to say Mikhail has choices, fine. But he has only one choice that ends well for everyone.” There was the tiniest emphasis on the last word.

He’s digging. He wants to know if you know about Dariya.

Well, I fucking did. And I knew whose fault that singular “choice” was.

“I wasn’t just talking about the choices Mikhail makes,” I said quietly, suppressing a tremble in my voice as I tried to stare down this man who held his children hostage to one another. “Just who is it that chose to narrow Misha’s path for him, Mr. Sokolov?”

That got a reaction. A small one, this was a man who had decades of experience keeping his cool. But I saw his eyes widen a fraction, saw him swallow back—annoyance, probably. But maybe also a hint of…not respect, but recognition.

Alarm bells clanged in my head. Recognition might not be a good thing.

Silence hung in the air, giving my anxiety the opportunity to catch up to the rest of me. But before I could spiral, the door flew open. “Father,” Misha said, voice laced with the same sort of anger I thought Mr. Sokolov was restraining. “How nice of you to visit.”

Author’s Note

B-Side Track: The Talking Heads – Once in a Lifetime

(I promise this is thematic, in its way. But if you can’t stand it, an alternate option with a very different mood is Modest Mouse – Bukowski.)

Oh, Emma. She tried to learn a bit of strategy from Misha, but she ended up just sticking her head right in the lion’s mouth. It’s probably gonna be fine, right? No bonus content, I’m too nervous for her.

FUN FACT:

It’s been funny learning Russian and eastern European traditions as part of this project. The hostess gift Konstantin references here is one. I mean, we have a similar thing in America, you go to a dinner or a party and you bring some wine or beer, right? But I gather it’s a bit more strictly observed in Russia. The tradition of the samovar being like, okay, settle in, we’re chilling, but for hours. Hanging out in hardcore mode.

Next up: Misha confronts Konstantin. How do you think it’s gonna go?