NIKOLAI.
Six days later, someone buzzes my apartment at eleven PM.
I check the camera.
It’s Alexei, looking wrecked in a black coat, jaw tight with what I recognize as barely controlled anger.
I buzz him up.
When I open the door, he stalks in without greeting.
“Nice place,” he says, voice clipped. “Didn’t know cardiac surgeons made this kind of money.”
“Investments. Inheritance. None of your business.” I close the door. “Why are you here?”
“You know why.”
“Do I?”
“Don’t play games with me, Nikolai. I’m not in the mood.”
“Then why are you here?”
He turns to face me, and I can see the war in his eyes. Pride versus want.
“Because you were right,” he says finally, the admission clearly costing him. “I can answer your question now.”
“Then answer it.”
“You want to know why it ha
