“Complicated is one way to put it,” Francesca says, her eyes narrowed in a way that makes me suspect she hasn’t forgiven him. Not one damn bit.
“I know what he did was awful,” I confess. “To Ainsley. I hope it didn’t traumatize her, I truly do. But maybe Maxim should take a page from his book the next time he breaks into our home and terrorizes a little girl.”
Oops, I realize as her eyes go wide. It seems Maxim didn’t tell her that little detail.
“Dima brings out the worst in him,” she says, her lips pursed. It’s not an explanation—I don’t think it’s meant to be one. Not really.
It mirrors something Vadim told me once himself. These brothers, so hostile, and yet so damn similar. Will they ever be able to let go of whatever hatred is simmering between them?
“I think it’s stupid that two little girls can’t play because their fathers are insane,” I blurt out loud.
Francesca eyes me for a moment. Slowly her small smile returns. “Maxim isn’t her father,” she says. “She’s not even mine. She’s my sister.”
“Ah.” I nod, and some of the uncomfortable tension between us eases. “Well, Magda’s not mine, either.”
Though you seem to think she is, a part of me hisses. You’re making decisions for her after all, behind her father’s back.
“But she’s Vadim’s, isn’t she?” Francesca says with a sureness that alludes to the fact she too can see the resemblance. “I’m sorry, but he doesn’t seem like the fatherly type.”
“He’s trying,” I admit with a sigh. “He really is… I take it, you aren’t his biggest fan, though?”
She bites her lip as if to stop herself from saying more. Then she shrugs. “I don’t like being the recipient of his little mind games, that’s for damn sure.”
Yikes. I file away that assertion for later. Could Vadim be manipulative? Yes, case and point is my current predicament—despite all my insistence to the contrary, I’m watching his daughter while he gallivants off to only God knows where. But are said actions malicious? Francesca seems to think so.
She stares off into the distance, frowning as if at an unpleasant memory.
To change the subject, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “Are you excited for your wedding?” It’s the wrong topic, one I’m woefully unable to be objective about. To my own horror, judgment leeches into my voice, far too potent to go unnoticed. “I got married young,” I confess apologetically. “It didn’t end well. I’m a bit jaded about it. Please allow me to live vicariously through you, though.”
Francesca eyes me warily, an eyebrow raised. “We haven’t planned much,” she admits.
From her tone, I suspect it’s not by choice. Could the delay have something to do with whatever drew Maxim to Moscow? Rather than pry, I shrug.
“I remember my own wedding. I put so much effort into it, when I should have put more time and energy into planning my future, sans some self-centered asshole.”
Ouch, Tiffy. This isn’t about you. Once again, Jim rears his ugly head, and I don’t know why. Why the hell would I bring up marriage at all? But my lips rebel against my brain, carrying on the conversation, “I was too young,” I add, eyeing the woman up and down. “Twenty, barely out of high school. I had no clue. Not that there’s anything wrong with getting married young, that is...”
Judging from the faint pink coloring Francesca’s cheeks, she’s not too far from the twenty-year age mark. Damn. I could kick myself for insinuating something so rude. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be. I’m not ashamed of my relationship with Maxim,” she says with a maturity that puts past Tiffy’s mindset to shame. Her eyes take on that faraway look, betraying a difficult past I can only speculate on. “He’s not perfect. I’m not either. But I don’t have to justify that to anyone.”
I tilt my glass, finding far more solidarity in her words than I care to admit to myself at the moment. “I’ll drink to that.”
We finish off our glasses, still watching the girls. They chase each other, each one cackling madly as if in a competition to prove who is having more of a blast. If mirth could be graded on the decibel scale, then I’ll say this is one hell of a successful playdate.
“Ains doesn’t really have anyone her age to play with outside of school,” Francesca says after a moment’s silence. Her voice is so soft, it’s almost as if she’s talking more to herself than to me. But that seemingly harmless statement opens the door to so much more.
And for Magda’s sake, I step right on through. “We’re just next door,” I say carefully.
But we both leave it at that without crossing over that unspoken boundary.
Not yet.
Chapter Sixteen
Magda and I return to the house under the disapproving glare of Ena, who skulks off the second we’re safely inside. Vadim hasn’t returned yet, it seems. Sighing, I fix Magda a pre-prepared meal, and then we spar in another round of Monopoly.
Much to my utter joy, I don’t get slaughtered minutes in. That little play date must have zapped Magda of her energy because I’m seconds away from beating her when the door opens. My body shivers in recognition of those slow, heavy footsteps before Vadim even appears in the doorway.
I gasp, alarmed at his appearance. Any irritation for his disappearance vanishes, and I lurch to my feet, staggering toward him. He’s paler than ever, his features gaunt in a way that makes me suspect he might have gone both days without eating. His hair is mussed, his suit wrinkled, and those eyes wretchedly hollow. They flit over me with barely any recognition before latching onto Magda. He barrels past me, snatching her from her chair despite her shrieked protests. Sinking into a crouch,
