When men come to conquer, they take what they want without question. I imagine, in the chaos following the battle, Michelangelo had to ensure he took full control.
But he’ll be back. And when he comes, I shudder to think of what he’ll want from me.
It’s an agonizing wait, especially when I can hear the muffled voices filtering up from downstairs.
The gruff, male commands and raucous laughter.
The screams have stopped, at least, and as far as I can tell, no one is openly crying.
But I’m not sure if that’s because the worst of the violence is done or if there’s just no one left to suffer.
My chest aches when I think of all the good people who worked for Pyotr, all the maids who felt like friends, the kitchen staff that never treated me like I was unwelcome.
My life with my husband might have been a living hell, but I can’t say that I was completely alone.
My pulse quickens anxiously when I think of frail, old Svetlana, and I silently will her to be okay, but a woman that age could too easily get caught in the crosshairs of a violent takeover.
Sniffling, I try not to think too hard on any one person and what might have come of them.
If I do, I might just go insane. It was Pyotr’s job to protect the people who work for him—my responsibilityto keep them safe—and we both failed them miserably.
I don’t know how long I sit there, waiting. My phone got lost somewhere in the morning’s chaos, and the guest room doesn’t even have a bedside alarm clock to inform me of the time.
So, instead, I gauge the general hour by the sunlight through the wide picture window as the brilliant yellow orb makes its way across the sky.
It’s dipping near the horizon when someone finally knocks on the door, then slowly opens it without waiting for my permission.
The guard Michelangelo referred to as Vittorio earlier opens the door, a tray balanced on his palm.
“Some food for you, signora,” he says, sliding the tray onto the dresser near the door.
The scent of roasted tomato and herbs travels across the open space, tickling my nose. My tummy growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten anything but a few pieces of fruit since this morning, and my mouth starts to water. But I stay put until Vittorio has withdrawn from the room once more.
From the soft conversation in the hall, I can assume he’s not alone, and I wait until I catch the sound of receding footsteps before I slowly rise from the ball I’ve been curled in for the larger part of the day.
Tentatively, I make my way across the room, keeping an ear out for any motion in the hallway.
But everything’s quiet as I reach the tray of food, a simple glass of water set beside a bowl of hearty stew and a fresh dinner roll. I have to bite back the groan of appreciation.
It smells insanely good—good enough that I suspect Yelena cooked it. I hope that means she’s safe and unhurt.
But as I reach for the spoon, an alarm bell goes off in the back of my mind. What if they drugged the food?
Not Yelena—I’m sure she wouldn’t. But any number of men could have tampered with the meal, hoping to incapacitate me so I won’t put up a fight.
My stomach knots as I take a step back from the appetizing food. I can’t trust it.
Instead, I head into the bathroom and turn on the faucet to fill my stomach with water.
Then I return to my position on the floor near the window, and curling back into my defensive ball, I watch the door, ready and waiting for Michelangelo to try taking what he wants from me.
7
MIKO
“A toast,” I say, raising my glass of top-shelf whiskey we found in Pyotr Novikov’s impressive stash. “To our first victory on our path to revenge.”
Gio, Sandro, and Raf follow suit, as they recline in the hunting-lodge-themed cigar room of our temporary, new home.
