The men who came after me, who would have done terrible things to me, aredead.
Brody clasps my cheek, tips my face up, and frowns.
I didn’t stop this, and I probably could have. I could have told Brody no more. I let this happen, and all I can think is how scared I was when they invaded my home and threatened my family. Does it make me an evil person that I’m not sad they’re dead?
I’m overwhelmed with emotions I can’t name.
How does it reflect on me that when Brody said the others deserved it too, and I shouldn’t mourn the men whose closed eyes I’ve seen, that I believe him?
I want to trust him.
I don’t want to leave. But he has to want me.
“Oh Caterina.” He sighs and plucks the phone from my hands and tosses it away, before gathering me into his arms. “Don’t cry.”
I didn’t realise I was, but I give in to it, pressing my face into the warm, deliciously-scented ocean-and-steel softness of his grey shirt. The emotions of today—and since the day I discovered I was a mafia target—are too big.
Relief. So much relief I’m almost drowning in it. It’s only letting it go that I recognise how tense I’ve been. Everything from the attack in my apartment and the fact the men were still out there, uncertainty about my parents, worry about my last exam, and the halting dance of attraction and suspicion with Brody has been weighing on my mind. Now the men are dead, the London “Maths Club” gave me a Business Studies examination much tougher, but funnier and more engaging, than the essay questions I was expecting, and something has changed between Brody and me.
Too tired to argue, I accept his guidance. He lifts me out of the car with his hands under my knees and at my back, carrying me. So long as I can keep my face glued to his chest, I don’t care. Maybe I’m beyond pride now, because I don’t question that there’s a helicopter, and he gently but firmly straps me in and puts ear defenders on me, my legs still over his thighs and my shoulders nestled close.
Somehow, I must sleep, or rest, or something, because when I next open my eyes, it’s quiet and I’m surrounded by Brody’s solid, comforting presence.
“Hey,” he murmurs, brushing a wisp of hair from my cheek and looking down at me with a soft smile.
“Hey.” I totally broke down there. Ack, I’m embarrassed and try to sit up. Brody’s grip on me tightens for a moment, as though to stop me, then immediately loosens.
“Where are we?” We’re on the ground, on a large, neat, green lawn. That’s why it’s quiet. Brody lifts off my ear protection and his, and I manage the adult feat of unbuckling myself and standing up. Well done, me.
“You seemed to need to be out of the penthouse in London, so we’re at my home in Yorkshire.” He lifts me out of the helicopter, nods to the pilot who apparently had been waiting for me to wake, because once we’re clear, he takes off, leaving Brody and me together holding hands as we walk across the manicured lawn towards a huge manor house.
“This is yours?” I ask in disbelief. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, but while my parents aren’t poor, they are nowhere near the “kind of place people visit for picnics and tours” level.
He nods.
It’s a castle. It’s amazing. The creamy yellow stone is aged and worn, there is a plant climbing all over one half, the pink flowers like cupcake sprinkles. Over the porch entrance there’s a riot of peachy roses. It’s unspeakably lovely.
And maybe it’s his intention, but I’m utterly distracted. Was I annoyed with him? Was I upset? Maybe. I can’t remember what about. Who cares when my heart lifts as he leads me through the gardens towards the house.
“It looks very grand and old.” And I feel both charmed and rather out of place.
“Twelfth century, I believe, though no one really knows.” It’s only then that I notice he hasn’t let go of my hand. His long fingers are laced with my smaller ones. He’s so tall my forearm is parallel to the ground. “There are historic parts of the house, especially the cellars.”
“Has it been in your family all that time?”
“Nyet.” His mouth twists as he glances across at me. “My family comes from Russian peasant stock. Nothing grand about the Marchenkos, but we know how to make revenge pizza, and it’s almost dinner time. Denis has been hard at work in the kitchen today.”
And suddenly, I know where this is going. More evasion. No answers, no clear understanding of how he feels or what he wants. If I allow him, before I know it, he’ll have an eminently-sensible reason I should stay here for my safety or comfort, and I’ll be as confused as before.
I adore this man, but I deserve more.
I halt, as we reach the edge of the formal flower beds that surround the house, digging my heels in when he tugs my arm.
“Moya koshechka?”
“Why have you brought me here?”
“You said you wanted to leave London,” he replies calmly. “I thought a change of scenery would be helpful.”
