Unless this suite isn't only for me.
My pulse stutters as the door handle turns.
The sound feels louder than it should. Metal scraping metal.
And then he's there.
Dmitri.
He breezes in like he owns the air I'm breathing, and every cell in me screams to run.To hide. To disappear into the walls before he can decide what I'm worth today.
The red suit doesn't look ridiculous anymore. It doesn't look like a fashion disaster or poor taste. Now it looks intentional. Devilish.
"Finally," he says. "Setting sail. Off into the unknown, as the poets might say."
He moves fully into the room. The door closes behind him. The lock clicks.
"Though I suppose for you it's not so unknown." He's looking at me. "More like inevitable. Fate already decided. Just going through the motions at this point."
He takes a few more steps.
"We'll be in open waters soon, printsessa. Nothing but nice blue Lake Michigan water between us and our destination. No Coast Guard jurisdiction out here. No police. No laws that matter." He pauses. "No Ivan to save you."
I try to keep my voice from shaking. "What are you doing here?"
"Checking on my merchandise," he replies casually. "Quality control, as they say. As you know, Dmitri Volkov has a reputation to maintain in these circles. Can't sell subpar goods. Would damage my brand considerably."
He's moving again, circling me slowly.
"A client agreed to purchase you—fascinating man, really. Met him years ago in Moscow. Huge deviant. Very specific tastes. Particular about what he buys and how he wants it prepared."
The word "prepared" makes my stomach turn.
"You know—" Dmitri's voice takes on that quality, the insufferable monologue tone. "—Ivan's grandfather, Stanislav Petrov. Old school Bratva. One grumpy, ruthless son of a bitch from what I hear. Died before I was born, but the stories live on."
He completes his circle and stands in front of me now.
"Stanislav wronged my client's grandfather decades ago. Some business dispute. Territory disagreement. Money owed or stolen. The usual generational Bratva drama. But my client's family?" He smiles. "They hold grudges. Pass them down like heirlooms. Father to son. Grandfather to grandson."
I'm trying to follow. Trying to understand why this matters. Why he's telling me all this.
"My client wants revenge for something that happened before either of you was born. And who better to take fifty-year-old family grudges out on than Stanislav Petrov's great-granddaughter-in-law?" He laughs at his own joke. "Well, would-be great-granddaughter-in-law. But you never got that far, did you?"
My teeth clench. The thought of being bought for revenge. Being used to settle scores between dead men who probably don't even remember what they were fighting about.
But I'm not as scared as I should be.
Some stupid, naive part of me still believes Ivan might come. Still holds onto hope even though hope makes no logical sense right now.
Why do I still believe? What's wrong with me?
Dmitri's phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out and checks it. His smile widens.
"Oh, look at that. Perfect timing." He shows me the screen. It’s some navigation app with coordinates. "Officially in open waters now. No turning back. Literally and figuratively."
He pockets the phone, reaches out, and touches my hair.
My whole body recoils from his touch.
