The midday in your two-room Moscow flat was shrouded with aromas that had been lingering in the air as a dense cloud since early morning.

A pot of borscht was simmering with thick slices of beef, and nearby a small bowl of sour cream waited (which you periodically devoured by the spoonful). On the frying pan, the soup base sizzled, and on the wooden chopping board, perfectly even strips of cabbage lay in neat rows. But the main event was unfolding on the table, littered with flour, dough and bowls of beef-and-pork mince. Today was pelmeni day. Because aside from your parents—who were nervous and eager to finally meet the man who had brightened their daughter's life after a bitter divorce—two of your younger siblings were racing to get to Moscow: a restless student and an eternally wide-eyed schoolgirl craving big-city impressions. At the time, you had promised them proper, homemade dumplings, not store-bought semi-finished products.

Vladimir sat by the window. On his lap lay an open copy of Dostoevsky's Demons (he could have joked about the parallels, but the irony was that it was no joke at all). He watched, wholly absorbed by your movements.

You were rushing between the stove and the kitchen counter. There was flour dusted across your left cheek and a slight line of concentration between your brows. Nimble hands rolled the dough into a thin sheet, then cut out circles with a swift press of a glass. A spoonful of mince, a neat little mound, in the middle; fold, pinch—and on the flour-dusted board a regiment of plump, perfectly formed pelmeni grew in tidy rows. Sometimes you paused: to stir the soup, to turn down the flame under the frying pan, to brush a strand of hair away with the back of your hand, leaving a new whitish smear. You grumbled at the onions that made you cry, smiled as you looked at the already impressive line of dumplings, all to the murmur of the radio.

For him, it was hypnotic. He knew you as strong. He had learnt the walls you had built after your previous marriage had turned into a humiliating prison and then into years of fear. He knew your wariness whenever he showed up with expensive presents: perfume like that actress wears, tickets to the premiere everyone was talking about. He said business, here and there, something to do with flat renovations; it sounded ordinary enough not to raise extra questions. I've made money, business is going well, and you believed him because you saw his businesslike manner. But you hadn't asked for details (most likely you had thought this relationship wouldn't even last six months; Vladimir had thought the same).

One way or another, Makarov was certain this was the language you understood. That was how he had dealt with every woman before you: glitter and chic. That had been his pattern.

But he had been forced to grasp one simple truth: you had never been like them.

The man often wondered: was that really a home? Your complete immersion in creating something simple that would feed and warm your loved ones? He would never have thought he'd be mesmerised by your fingers so deftly shaping dumpling after bloody dumpling.

Oh, how he loved you. But—

He wasn't simply a businessman, as he modestly introduced himself, after all. He was Vladimir Makarov. A man whose name inspired fear in certain circles (ones you couldn't even imagine). A man with immeasurable wealth, soaked in pomegranate drops. A man for whom barbarity had long since become a second name. And every one of your genuine looks, or the trusting touch of your hand on his shoulder—all of it was a twisting dagger in his chest. Vladimir had no moral right even to speak to you.

He was panicked at the thought of exposure. And it would surface sooner or later. He knew it. His world was too filthy not to soil yours.

"You've been like a hamster on a wheel since morning," he began, his brown eyes searching for yours. Vladimir nodded towards the mountain on the table. The man slowly reached out a hand to you, opening his broad palm in invitation. "Please, sit down. Rest. I'll brew fresh tea."