“Gone? What the fuck do you mean, gone?” I stop at the top of the three stone steps that lead up to my Moscow suburbia house and where my six foot three two hundred and fifty-pound house guard, Dimitri is hulking and wringing his hands like a five-year-old little girl.
“Boss.” Dimitri glances at Stepan, my best friend and right hand man since we were boys, standing beside me. “She go. She no explain.”
“Go?” I stare at Dimitri. “What the fuck you mean go? Go where?” Now I look at Stepan who shrugs with his hands up. He has no idea either. We’ve been in the office all day.
“She no say. She … ” Dimitri’s voice trails off.
I push past him and head to my wife’s home office, the glass box I call it. I said no to her to working after we married. She said yes. So, I built her whatever kind of glass patio office she wants so works at home. Compromise. “Savannah!” The office is empty. Weirdly so. I pick up a hair tie from her desk. I storm back but Dimitri and Stepan are right behind me in the doorway.
“What the fuck?” I glare at Dimitri. “Where did she go? She knew I was on my way home.”
“She no say.” Dimitri looks at the floor then back at me. “She just leave. She throw phone then leave.”
“Fucking speak Russian.” He’s driving me crazy with his broken English shit. My wife has everyone around here trying to please her with speaking English.
Dimitri glances at the pile of broken plastic at the base of the glass wall.
None of this makes sense. I just talked to her this morning. We planned dinner tonight at Anatoli’s. I walk over and pick up her office phone, but not before taking in the dark scuff mark on the wall where the phone hit first. “Fucking—” I stare at Dimitri.
“I know nothing, Boss,” he uses both hands to gesture. “She throw phone then leave.”
“And you didn’t stop her?” I shake my head. “Just stood there like a fool, blinking and collecting a pay cheque for doing fuck all.”
Dimitri wrings his hands again. “Boss. She black American woman. I try stop her, she murder me.”
“Are you fucking kidding—” I can only stare. “You’re a fucking mammoth and she’s—” I hold out my hand to below our shoulder height. “What? Eighty pounds wet!?”
“She good with knife.”
I blink and grit my teeth. “Stepan make sense of this shit before I fucking kill somebody.” I should have gone with my gut an hour ago. I knew something was wrong when she wouldn’t answer her phone. From my office I felt her silent treatment. Savannah and I text every day at this time. Every fucking day for the past two years she has me conditioned. She talks to me about her day. I am evasive with her about mine. She does not like my work but we text. We banter. We send a naked photo or two. This afternoon I texted her and nothing. One hour of nothing. I tell myself she is busy doing whatever it is she does with her online English teaching classes.
I storm back out of the house, Stepan and Dimitri behind me, the rest of the boys still out front near the cars.
“Not you,” I bark at Dimitri when he starts down the steps behind us.
“I very sorry, Boss. When she go she usually back before you get—”
“Usually?” I skid to a halt and stare at Dimitri. “She has done this before?”
He puts his hands up and nods. “Da.”
I draw back, ready to punch him square in the face, then realize I do not have time for this shit.
“Boss,” Stepan stands between me and Dimitri. “She is at Daniil’s house.”
“Daniil’s? What the fuck for?”
“Car is stop there.” Stepan holds up his tablet. All the cars have trackers, and the tracking dot for my wife’s Maserati, the one I gave her for her first birthday as my wife, pulses on Daniil’s street.
What the fuck is she doing at Daniil’s house in the middle of the afternoon … for an hour? I turn and get into the backseat of the car, Stepan gets back into the front.
I nod to Ivan, my driver, who is looking at me through the rearview. “Go. Daniil’s.”
It takes less than five minutes to get to my lawyer’s house, and sure enough Savannah’s car is still there, parked on the street in front of the iron gates. “How long has her car been there?”
Stepan glances at me from the front seat. “Two hours.”
My gut tightens and I get out of the car and tear open the trunk. I grab one of the shot guns and a pack of shells.