“And Svetlana?”
“Fine, she’s fine,” Chastity assures me quickly. “She was confined to her room during the violence, and I checked on her as soon as I was allowed.”
I feel as though I can breathe for the first time in forever, and I release the oxygen trapped in my lungs in a rush. Tears of relief sting my eyes, and I quickly blink them back.
“Areyoualright,gospozha?” she asks, her voice more tentative now.
I don’t even know where to begin unpacking the answer to that question, so I start with a simple, physical assessment. “I’m fine. I’ve just been stuck in here, worrying about you all,” I say, looking around the room.
She nods, her eyes flicking down to my cheek for a moment and the bruise that’s starting to show from Pyotr’s backhand yesterday morning.
Typically, I would have covered it up with makeup by now, but all that is down the hall in the master suite, so my shame is visible for anyone to see.
“I was instructed to help you get ready for breakfast,” she explains, holding up a fresh dress I hadn’t even noticed before in my relief to find her alive. “The boss wants an audience with you.”
“Right.” Glancing down at the dress I slept in, I find it rumpled and stained with dark handprints that make my stomach squirm.
No doubt they’re from my captor chasing me down and carrying me to this room—which means the brownish-red smears are likely Pyotr’s blood. “I’ll just take a quick shower first.”
Chastity waits as I get cleaned up and dressed, then helps me braid my wet locks back from my face.
It doesn’t take long to get ready, and I stand beside her as she knocks on the door to be let out.
It opens, the guard from yesterday, Vittorio, standing at the threshold, and he gives Chastity a cursory nod before he turns his attention to me. “He’s waiting for you,” the guard says. “I’ll escort you downstairs. I would advise you not to run.”
Something in the grave tenor of his warning sends a shiver down my spine. I imagine that means Michelangelo’s patience has limits—and I don’t want to find out what happens if I exceed them.
Chastity and I share a glance before I step out into the hall to follow Vittorio.
Despite his warning, as soon as I’m free of my makeshift prison, the urge to run nearly overwhelms me.
If I weren’t barefoot and surrounded by Chiaroscuro men, I might take the risk.
But we’ve passed five of them before we’ve even made it to the stairs, and I know I wouldn’t get far. Better to wait and watch for a realistic opportunity if I’m going to run.
Even I know that chance won’t likely come again.
Not now that I’ve become a prisoner in my home once more.
I’m led into the breakfast room, and my heart flutters anxiously as a wave of horrifying flashbacks comes rushing to my mind’s eye: Pyotr with his face beaten and bloody, his torso punctured with weeping holes, the crimson smile that Michelangelo opened at his throat before he collapsed, lifeless, to the ground.
My eyes stray toward the spot where my husband fell.
The Persian area rug is missing, and it looks like someone thoroughly scrubbed the dark wood floor beneath it—but any evidence of Pyotr’s bloody execution has been wiped away by now.
“I’m so glad you decided to join us.” The deep, booming voice snaps me from my reverie, and my eyes jerk up to find Michelangelo Chiaroscuro watching me closely.
His keen gaze holds a deep intelligence. His strong jaw and powerful neck are a reminder that he’s not just smart but physically capable of overpowering me with ease—I can still feel his iron hold around my waist from yesterday, the rock-hard strength of his torso as he restrained me.
And yet, the way his dark curls fall haphazardly into his eyes gives him an almost boyish charm.
He’s wearing a crisp Italian suit today, one that looks freshly tailored, and I wonder when he had the time to get a new outfit between having his family home burned to the ground and coming to obliterate mine.
Thankfully, it would seem, he chose to leave the Novikov compound mostly in one piece—as far as I can tell—a courtesy I’m sure Pyotr did not extend to the Chiaroscuros.
Whether he’s dressed in a casual henley and jeans or business attire, Michelangelo cuts an intimidating figure, filling out the fabric in ways that remind me of the rippling muscles hidden beneath.
He carries himself with the effortless confidence of someone raised in wealth, the kind of self-assurance that comes from being a Chiaroscuro—where the name alone holds so much power, the number of zeros in your bank account is almost irrelevant.
