It doesn’t matter that he’s an entire floor beneath me, the full length of the hall away.
I can still hear every word of his rumbling Russian baritone. “Anika!” he singsongs. “I’m home!”
The sound of my name nearly sends me jumping out of my skin, and I drop the shirt I was folding in my momentary panic.
Cold dread settles in the pit of my stomach as I rush from the bedroom and down the hall to the stairs that curve around the perimeter of our grand entry.
“Ah, there she is, mybeautifulwife. I’ve brought friends home to celebrate,” Pyotr announces as I reach the bottom landing.
His suit is ripped and dirty in several places, his tie stained from where he loosened it with filthy fingers.
Gray ash peppers his dark, reddish hair and beard, and the tattoos on the backs of his hands are smeared with something that looks dangerously like dried blood.
But he doesn’t seem to notice as he gestures to several of his captains who stand near the door behind him.
All are broad shouldered with bushy beards, all covered in dirt and soot, and my heart hammers against my ribs because I know where they’ve been.
Today was the day the Novikovs were to join forces with the Tanaka-kai and the Murray family to crush the Chiaroscuros into dust. And from what I can gather, they succeeded.
My mouth goes dry as a memory flashes behind my mind’s eye, unbidden.
The memory of a tall, dark-haired man in a black velvet blazer smiling down at me, blue eyes shining with amusement.
It’s not my husband’s eyes—they never smile.
And just the memory of them makes my stomach flutter.
“Anika!” Pyotr growls, snapping me back to the present as his good mood evaporates in an instant. “We’ve come to drink. Take us to the lounge, where you can offer my loyal men some refreshment for their hard work today.”
Heart skipping a beat, I turn and lead the way, my heels—which Pyotr insists I wear even around the house—clicking softly against the dark wood floors.
“Please, make yourselves at home,” I say, gesturing around the cigar room with its natural pine hunting-lodge wainscotting, forest-green wall paint, and rich chocolate leather sofas.
The elk antler chandelier suspended high above the coffee table is Pyotr’s pride and joy—not that he made it or killed the animals who sacrificed their lives for the commissioned piece.
Considering he doesn’t even like the taste of venison, I don’t see why he insisted upon them being live rather than foraged antlers the elk had already shed.
But then, he loves the concept of big-game hunting.
Pyotr often jokes that his favorite game to hunt is found far closer to home than elk, and the sick joke hits home at the sight of his stained hands.
My stomach roils when I picture him stalking the Chiaroscuro family through their halls today, like a hunter would a deer in the woods.
As the men settle in, swapping stories in a seamless blend of Russian and English, I keep a low profile, going to the wet bar to prepare shots of chilled vodka.
Laughter permeates the atmosphere as one of Pyotr’s men recounts how he chased down one of the Chiaroscuro maids and slit her throat when she tried to run from him.
A shiver trickles down my spine, turning my blood cold when I think of my maid Chastity suffering such a fate.
It would break my heart.
But that’s the way of our world.
There is no mercy in the Novikov Bratva—especially not for women.
“I just can’t stop replaying the look on Don Augusta’s face when I told him to get on his knees,” Pyotr sneers, accepting his tumbler of vodka from me with a lazy glance.
The men chuckle as I finish handing out the drinks, and I move to the edge of the room as his captain Akim raises a glass.
