The Last Romanov: Book One

The Royal Secret

As usual, I tossed my backpack onto the floor in the doorway whenever I'd entered the small flat my Mom and I owned in Manhattan, New York. While it's a small but comfortable flat, you can't really help but notice that it's pretty luxurious. I'd always wondered where Mom had gotten all the luxurious stuff my Mom owned, but I never thought to ask where she got them. I'd assumed that she'd gotten all the luxury from either her parent's house before I was born, or she'd gotten them from an antique store.

I never knew my grandparents. Mom told me that all of my grandparents had died before I was born, so I never knew about my relatives. And I never asked my own mother about them, because she always got teary-eyed every time my grandparents were mentioned — whether it would be from her friends, my aunts and uncles, or any random person, she always got teary-eyed. Mom can be very sensitive sometimes, and refuses to even talk about my ancestors. So, naturally, I knew nothing about the aunts, uncles, and grandparents that lived before me.

"Mom, I'm home!" I screamed, hoping that my mother would hear me.

She's usually home from work at this time of day. When no word came from my mother, I started to get a little nervous. Was she late? Did she have some sort of important meeting to attend and forgot to tell me about it? Surely, she would have texted me about that before she left, right?

I furrowed my eyebrows together in confusion and crept cautiously towards the small but comfortable living room. Everything seemed to be in its original place as it had been this morning. Nothing seemed disturbed. All of the Russian Orthodox icons were hung neatly on the walls. Pictures of me and my Mom were dotted throughout the room. The little Russian Orthodox shrine where my Mom would pray nearly every morning and night stood in one corner of the room. The pillows on the couch were still fluffed up and untouched, as they had been this morning before I left for school. The kitchen space was neat and clean as well. Nothing seemed disturbed. Not even the antique blue-and-white china that had funny designs on them, were still hung neatly on the walls of the kitchen. She kept them up on the walls for decoration. She rarely used them for regular use.

"Mom?" I repeated again, hoping that she would answer me this time. But there was no answer. And I began to panic. Where was she?!

Blinded by fear and anxiety, I managed to get my hands on a kitchen knife. It was small, but incredibly sharp. There was a one percent chance that there would be a murderer in this house. I'd know, wouldn't I?

But just in case, I wanted to defend myself if anything unpleasant came my way. I searched the office that my mother used. I took one quick look around and realized that her office space was empty. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary in that room. So I continued to move on. The bathroom was completely fine, as well. Nothing seemed to feel out of place. I wasn't sure if I should feel relieved or anxious about that. A mix of both, I suppose.

Finally, I reached the small library. I could hear two voices coming from the inside. One voice belonged to my mother. The other voice had a very heavy accent to it. For some reason, the voice did not sound welcoming in my ears. It sounded dark, and brooding. Like someone who could supposedly be a murderer. But why was my mother talking to him? She didn't sound scared, or frightened. She sounded very excited, as a matter of fact. But why she sounded excited about the fact that he would perhaps murder me, I had no idea.

I made sure that the coast was clear before barging in. I held the knife over my head, preparing to strike at whoever was talking to my mother, as the voice sounded unfamiliar. Both people looked up at me, surprised. Mom actually looked shocked that I had decided to wield a weapon. And, while I was relieved that my mother seemed to be fine, I still had doubts about this stranger she had been talking to.