27. NICK

“Go!” I shout. “Run!”

Cool, cloudy days like today are rare for New York in August, so I take advantage of the lower temperatures to push the dogs to full capacity and let them burn off their extra energy. When it’s blazing hot like it has been the past week or so, they end up listless, just wandering around the house or napping.

Storm giggles as they race past her and disappear over the cliff, where they bound down the switchbacks to the shore.

“Don’t you wish you could bottle that energy?” she sighs.

I do, especially when she comes after me like she did in the music room yesterday.

“We should get you working on commands,” I say. “They need to start recognizing you as a master.”

She smiles shyly as we amble over to the edge of the cliffs. “Wow,” she says. “That’s a pretty big commitment, don’t you think?”

“We’re sharing a bed. That means something to me.”

“Me, too.”

She slides her fingers through mine. At the cliffs, we look down to see Samson pestering a crab while Delilah barks at it.

“Let’s see if you can make them come,” I say.

“Well, I have had some practice with their master,” she coos in my ear.

I feel a hot blush in my cheeks. “Focus on the task at hand, will you?”

“Party pooper,” she pouts, letting go of my hand and cupping hers around her mouth.

“Samson! Delilah! Come!”

Instantly, the dogs abandon their crab and dart back to the cliffside and up through the switchbacks.

“Great,” I say. “Now praise them when they get here.”

A few moments later the dogs emerge at her side, and she drops to one knee beside them, ruffling their necks.

“Good dogs!” she says.

“All right,” I say. “Now back to business.”

Storm stands up and the dogs sit, waiting for a command.

“What should I do now?”

“Let’s do the basics.”

We run through sit, stay, roll over, up, off. They perform beautifully, even without any real practice. They already consider Storm a master.

“I’m a regular Cesar Milan,” she says proudly.

“Who?”

She sighs. “A guy who works with dogs on TV. You know, that big rectangular thing that gathers dust in your theater room?”

“Hey, I watch baseball.”

“Of course you do,” she says, shaking her head. “What else would I expect from a guy who drinks beer and has a garage full of American muscle cars?”

“My father taught me to love this country,” I say simply. “It gave me everything.”

She beams at me. “I got that,” she says. “And I think it’s awesome.”

We lean in for a kiss, which prompts the dogs to start whining, as if they’re missing out on something.

“Tsishinah,” I say as our lips part.

“What did you say?”

“I was telling the dogs to be quiet. Which reminds me: there’s one more command you need to learn.”

Storm’s expression turns serious.

“I think I already know it,” she says.

“You do?”

She puts her lips against my ear. “Shtoy?”

“You were paying attention,” I say. “Good.”

“I definitely paid attention to what it meant for that green-haired bitch.”

I call the dogs over and give them a scratch, letting them know that work time is done and they can play. Storm produces a tennis ball from her purse and throws it toward the gardens. They take off after it like they’ve been shot out of a cannon.

“Then you understand what it means?” I say.

She frowns. “In Russian? No.”

I shake my head. “Not that. What it means about the dogs.”

Storm gives me a curious look. She doesn’t quite get what I’m saying.

“These dogs are my companions, and I love them with all my heart,” I say as they come loping back, Samson jumping at Delilah in an attempt to get her to drop the ball.

“I know that,” says Storm, scratching Delilah’s ear.

“But they’re also weapons,” I say gravely. “I’m not saying you should be afraid of them, not at all. But you need to respect them and understand what they’re capable of.”

Storm nods slowly and drops her hand from Delilah’s coat. That doesn’t sit well with the dog, so she shoves her snout under Storm’s hand in an attempt to get back what she’s lost.

“I see your point,” she says. “And I will.”

“Good.”

At that moment, Samson’s harsh bark cuts through the breeze from the edge of the garden.

“That’s odd,” says Storm. “I’ve never heard him bark like that before.”

Neither have I; he knows not to bark unless he’s trying to call attention to something. But from where I’m standing, it looks like he’s barking at the ground.

“Quiet!” I holler as I make my way over to him. Samson sits at attention, but his whining means he’s still wound up about something.

“What’s the commotion?” I ask, scanning the ground. Then I see what’s gotten his attention, and my gut freezes.

It’s a black cigarette butt with a gold filter. Sobranie, the choice of rich Russians everywhere. And the scent I picked up on the clothes of Arkady Volkov and his friends. I glance around. From this vantage point, anyone standing here can see straight into the kitchen.

God damn it.

My jaw clicks as I grind my teeth. I told him. I fucking told him what would happen if he didn’t leave us alone.

“What is it?” Storm calls from thirty yards away. She and Delilah are heading straight for us.

“Just a frog,” I say, grinding the cigarette butt into the dirt with the toe of my boot.

“That’s odd,” she says. “Samson knows better than that.”

I smile without feeling it. “I think we’ve got him all riled up and playful. Time to run them some more.”

She throws the ball over the cliff and the dogs are off again. This time we decide to follow them down to the shore, maybe get them chasing the ball out into the ocean.

“Everything okay?” Storm asks, taking my hand as we head into the trail that will take us down the cliffside.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got the dogs,” I say, grinning. “What more could I want?”

She smiles and puts her lips to my ear. “Maybe another piano lesson when we get back?”

“You can read my mind,” I growl.

Thank God she actually can’t.