He bends to kiss her, murmuring something soft in Russian before pulling away with a lingering glance in my direction.
“Elena, this is Astrid,” he says. “I’m going to check on the kids. Be nice.”
Elena smirks. “Why do people always assume I’m the scary one?”
“Because you are,” he calls over his shoulder as he disappears into the mansion.
She sighs theatrically, then offers me a small, wry smile. “Ignore him. I’m delightful.”
I manage a tentative smile in return. “I believe you.”
“Come. Miserable day out. Looks like a storm any second.” She gestures forward, and I follow her into the mansion, promptly forgetting how to breathe.
The interior is a dream. Vaulted ceilings, coffered beams, gleaming floors, Persian rugs so soft they make you want to lay down on them and take a nap. The entryway alone is the size of my apartment, and the staircase looks like something out of an opera house.
“Is it just you and Grigori here?”
“Well, no. There are others, and Sergei’s with the nanny,” Elena says casually, as we move through a grand hallway framed with modern art and oil portraits. “They’re down in the playroom. He’s eight months and very demanding.”
“Sergei?”
“My son,” she says with a flicker of pride. “He already has Grigori wrapped around his tiny fingers.”
I smile at the thought.
“I’ve heard about you. I’m usually buried in the IT dungeon in the basement—network security, internal encryption, digital asset surveillance—that sort of thing. It’s not glamorous, but it’s very necessary.”
“I didn’t know Ivanov Holdings had in-house cybersecurity,” I say.
“We’re not just Bratva, sweetheart,” she replies with a wink. “We’reorganizedcrime.”
I laugh before I can stop myself.
“Lucky for me, I was working from home today,” she adds. “Otherwise I’d be in federal custody with the rest of those stubborn bastards.”
My expression falters. “Have you heard anything about them?”
“Not yet,” Elena says. “But our lawyers are circling. They’ll have them out before dinner, mark my words.”
I exhale sharply, the smallest bit of tension leaving my chest.
Elena stops at a set of double doors, turning back to me. “Come on,” she says, smiling like she knows exactly how unnerved I feel. “Let’s introduce you to the other wives.”
My heart skips a beat.Wives. Plural.Suddenly, I’m fifteen again, walking into a cafeteria full of girls who already know each other’s secrets.
I nod slowly. “Okay.” Inside, I’m bracing myself.
Elena leads me into a grand den that looks like it belongs in a period drama. A massive stone fireplace dominates one wall, its mantle carved with twisting vines and wild roses. Above it hangs a dark, moody oil painting of what could be an Ivanov ancestor—or maybe just someone scary enough to pass for one.
The ceilings soar and the towering bookshelves are filled with books—leather-bound volumes, gilded spines, thick tomes. A wide window stretches nearly floor to ceiling, arched at the top like a cathedral. Just beyond it, the garden stirs under a gentle rain, the first drops beginning to hit the glass.
I don’t have time to soak in the view because the women are here.
The first one I notice is stunning and curvy, with glowing olive skin and a presence that says “don’t mess with me” even though she’s smiling. Her long hair is swept to one side, and she’s wearing heels so lethal-looking I’m convinced they could double as weapons.
“You must be Astrid,” she says warmly, rising to greet me. “I’m Dalia. Married to Lev.”
“And I’m Maura,” says the redhead beside her, her voice soft and elegant. She’s beautiful in a quiet way—cool porcelain skin and wide gray-green eyes. “I’m Luk’s wife.”
