hips and tie resting loosely over his shoulders. His blonde hair was oddly messy, a few long strands falling over his forehead, and he wasn’t wearing any shoes.
But his lack of footwear wasn’t why I had paused.
Konstantin wasn’t wearing a shirt. The expanse of his tattooed chest greeted me, the cords of his muscles hard and visible. Strong biceps, ripped abs, v dipping into his trousers.
My mouth dried up.
Inked over his skin was incredible art. Pictures that told stories and shared memories. I could see his Bratva tattoo, as well as images of birds and skulls and justice scales, joined by the Kremlin and lengthy Cyrillic quotes.
Magnificent.
I stepped closer, unable to resist my curiosity. My eyes latched onto his upper arm, where a list of names was visible. In small font, I could make out Natalia, Artyom, Roman, Olezka, Tatiana, Danika, Dmitri, Roksana and Anton. His family.
Who the fuck was Natalia?
“Elena?”
Heat rose up my neck and cheeks, and I snapped my head up to meet his eyes. Konstantin’s entire face was lit in amusement.
“You’re staring,” he drawled.
I willed my cheeks to stop flaming and sent him a glare.
Boris knelt down beside Konstantin, holding out his measuring tape, pins between his teeth. He said something I couldn’t make out.
“I’m sure Elena is impressed by my new trousers,” observed Konstantin. “Do you want a pair, Elena?”
I finally found my voice. “I prefer to wear my pants with shirts.”
As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wished I could suck them back in.
Really, brain? I demanded. Out of everything you could have said you focused onto the fact that he isn’t wearing a shirt?
Konstantin grinned. “I hope I’m not bothering your delicate sensibilities.” His tone was polite but mocking, as Konstantin’s tone usually was when he spoke to me.
“I’m not bothered.”
Even Boris shot me a look at that statement.
I straightened, holding back my shoulders. “You wanted to see me?”
“Yes, about Tatiana.” Konstantin looked down to Boris. “Looser.” Then he turned back to me, his amusement vanishing. “What did you give her?”
“A home remedy I made in the lab.”
“That’s not an answer,” he told me.
“It is safe for pregnant women,” I told him. “But it is not a cure.”
Konstantin’s eyes hardened. “You haven’t cured her yet.”
“Uh, the cure is in the making...” Hell, the diagnosis was still in the making. “The tonic I gave Tatiana was to slow down the...” Poison. “Illness. Like putting pressure to a wound.”
His jaw tightened but he bowed his head. “I see.”
Tatiana’s name on his arm seemed to glare at me.
I opened my mouth to try and offer some reassurance, but no words came out. What could I say that would possibly make the situation better? Tatiana was very sick, and I had no idea what was wrong with her. I had no fucking clue how to help her.
“The lab has benefitted you, then?”
In more ways than one. “Yes. It’s been very helpful.”
The hours I’d spent in the lab had made me the happiest I had been in a long time. Surrounded by science and familiarity, my brain had been stimulated and challenged, sorting through hypotheses and chemicals. It made me long for high school science or even my childhood garden, where I had made plenty of concoctions.
I had even been sleeping slightly better the past two nights, my brain exhausted and easier to soothe into unconsciousness after a long day of research.
I didn’t mention any of this to Konstantin. I doubted he cared anyway.
Konstantin ran his hands through his hair—the first time I had ever seen him do something so casual—and nodded to me. “Have you spoken to your family yet?”
I inwardly cringed. “No. Not yet.”
“Make sure you do,” he said. “You are free to use the phone in my office.”
Who would I even ring? The last thing I wanted to do was speak to anyone with the surname Agostino. My childhood friends, Sophia and Beatrice, were both busy with their children and lives. But who else was there to call? I had no other ties to Chicago, no other people I cared about.
“I’ll do that,” I muttered.
Konstantin said something to Boris in Russian and the tailor adjusted some pins.
While he was distracted, I searched his room once again. I don’t know what I was looking for, but whatever it was, I didn’t find it.
Then under the bed, in the shadows, I spotted a familiar pair of beady green eyes.
Fuck off, I mouthed to Babushka.
“Babushka does not react well to threats,” cautioned Konstantin.