Now, I’m more inclined to believe the tea behind his first two wives’ fates—the stories no one dares to tell in front of Pyotr.
Now, I know what really happens behind closed doors at the Novikov household.
“Anika, why don’t you get us another round?” Pyotr suggests, pressing his empty rocks glass into my palm with a pointed look.
“Yes, of course,” I agree, grateful to be excused from the volatile conversation.
Few men are brazen—or stupid—enough to tread on such dangerous territory with Pyotr, and I wonder if tonight might not end in a violent confrontation after all.
I sincerely hope not—for my sake as much as Hampton’s.
Not to mention the mortification that would cause at a charity gala.
Weaving my way through the crowd, I take what feels like my first full breath since I slipped into my cocktail dress at the start of the evening.
“Another chilled vodka, top shelf,” I order from the bartender, leaning against the edge of the bar as I set Pyotr’s cut-crystal tumbler before him. “And a glass of prosecco, please.” I needsomething to settle my nerves if I’m going to make it through the rest of this evening.
As the bartender chills the vodka, I turn back to watch the convention center ballroom full of guests.
The dance floor is alive with movement, decadently dressed women twirling in the arms of black-tie-attired men.
The live orchestra on the stage off to the side is playing a beautiful rendition of Tchaikovsky.
And across the room from them is a buffet spread fit for royalty.
Everything about this evening matches the life my parents promised me when they sold me to Pyotr.
Everything except the man I belong to.
A cold ball settles in the pit of my stomach as I wonder for the hundredth time if they knew.
Did they know the rumors before they sat down with the Novikovs? Did my father understand the man he was delivering me to as he walked me down the aisle?
I would like to think they didn’t.
But it’s hard to believe my parents could have been as naive as I was back then—and I haven’t spoken to them since.
“Your drinks, ma’am?” the bartender says, pushing them farther across the bartop to capture my attention.
“Thank you,” I murmur, pulling a bill from my pearl-beaded clutch and tucking it into his tip jar.
Then I collect the drinks and quickly turn to head back to Pyotr.
Only a towering wall of black-velvet muscle just so happens to be passing through the same place I stepped.
I gasp as we collide so unexpectedly that champagne sloshes from the tall flute, spattering the velvet suit jacket and splashing across my chest.
Miraculously, the vodka makes it through the crash intact, and I hold it up and away from us, sure Pyotr would be irritated if I spilled his drink as well.
“I’m so sorry,” I breathe, heat climbing into my cheeks as cold bubbly trickles between my breasts.
“It was entirely my fault,” the stranger says, his deep, rumbling baritone unleashing nervous butterflies in my stomach.
There’s something oddly familiar about his voice, though I don’t know any Italians well enough to claim I know this man.
It feels like my gaze takes days to travel up the length of his chest to find his face, and when I do, my heart skips a beat.
The man I ran into is massive in every sense of the word—tall, muscular, and looming with broad shoulders, a thick neck that his collar and tie seem barely able to contain, and a strong jaw colored by dark stubble that’s nearly crimson at the roots.
