My phone buzzes in my pocket, yanking me out of the tailspin. I glance at the screen, where Sasha’s name fills it. “Yeah, Sasha,” I say. “How is she?” he asks, his voice low and steady. “She’s stable,” I say, my voice still rough. “The doctors said it was a minor stroke. She’s got some recovery ahead of her, but she’ll be okay with the right care.” “Good.” He exhales, relief bleeding through the line. There’s a long pause. Neither of us quite knows what to say in a situation like this. When Papa died, we just downed a bottle of vodka and said hardly anything. We Volkov men aren’t really
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