Natasha
NatashaI go upstairs to my room, but the crunch of car tires on the dirt drive outside sends me to the window.
I watch as Maxim, Oleg, the giant bratva enforcer, and Story, his musician girlfriend, climb out of an SUV. Story’s hair has changed color since I saw her last week. Instead of all platinum, her bob is now accented with two bold chunks of a beautiful magenta in the front.
Oleg brings a cooler in with him, and Maxim carries a plastic crate filled with what looks like wires and cords or other electronic equipment.
I hear the door open and shut, and Dima’s surly tones before he heads out to the SUV. I should go downstairs, but I hesitate, feeling awkward. I don’t know how they all feel about me now. I open my door quietly and stand out on the upper balcony, looking down.
