"How are you feeling?" he asks. Tessa stares at him in cold silence. "So you're going to give me the silent treatment?" Kirill asks, annoyed. "Because we had a childish argument when you were being kidnapped?"
"A childish argument?" Her eyes narrow dangerously. "You kidnapped me. You and your brother shot at us. You thought I was a man and insulted me the entire time, and now you want to chat like nothing happened?"
"I didn't shoot at you," Kirill defends himself. "The only person I was shooting at was Ilay."
"Oh, well, that makes it so much better," she shoots back with sarcasm.
"Kirill, not now," I warn him.
He looks at me, ignoring her. "And by the way, shouldn't you go deal with the Ilay problem? He's tearing through our contacts to find Iris, and Dad wants you to handle it."
I stand up, conflicted about leaving her side. "Go," Tessa says, seeing my hesitation. "I'll be fine. Go handle your mafia stuff." I nod. "I'll be back soon." Kirill and I leave the room, and as we walk down the hallway, he glances at me. "You like her," he says, smiling sideways at me.
"Shut up."
Chapter 28
?
IRIS
The sun is already up when I open my eyes, and my cheek still throbs with a dull ache that pulses every time I move my jaw, but at least I can talk now without wincing like I've been struck all over again. Letting my gaze drift from the edge of the bed, then down to the floor.
That's odd I think to myself. Neatly arranged close to the door are shopping bags, piled high beside the bed like someone has robbed an entire mall and dumped the loot in my room, designer labels I've only ever seen in passing stacked in neat rows with dresses and shoes and handbags and jewelry boxes gleaming under the morning light.
I stare at them and feel nothing, no excitement or gratitude or even curiosity, because none of this matters when the only question burning in my chest is whether Ilay is even alive.
That's all I care about right now.
Is he alive?
The question has been clawing at me since I woke up in this place, gnawing at the edges of my sanity because every time I close my eyes I see him on that road, bleeding and falling, and I don't know if he made it or if I've already lost him before I could figure out what he even meant to me.
The door swings open and the maid walks in, her face bright and cheerful like she's been waiting for this moment all morning.
"Oh, miss, you're finally up," she says, practically glowing with satisfaction. "Come, let me help you bathe, the masters have been waiting to have breakfast with you and they're so eager to see you looking well."
I glance at the bags again, my stomach twisting. "What is all this?"
"Oh, the masters bought everything for you themselves," she says, beaming like this is the best news she's delivered all week. "Master Roman, Master Kirill, and Master Radimir went out personally to pick the finest things, they want you to feel comfortable and at home here, they said you'll look absolutely stunning today, miss."
I don't respond because there's nothing to say, I just follow her to the bathroom and let her fuss over me while my mind spirals.
After she helps me wash and dry my hair, I walk back to the pile of clothes and grab the first thing I see, not caring about brands or impressions. I ignore the expensive jewelry in velvet boxes and reach for my own simple pieces from home.
Then I make my way downstairs, on unsteady legs.
The steps are polished wood, smooth under my bare feet, and the walls around me are lined with soft cream paneling and framed family portraits, their faces stern and unreadable.
I pass a few closed doors, their brass handles gleaming in the soft chandelier light, and round a corner into a hallway that widens into a seating area. Plush armchairs and a low table with a few art books give the space a quiet elegance. I wonder fleetingly if this is the floor’s dining area or just a place for casual morning tea. Who knows what rich people are up to.
I feel a lot stronger than yesterday and I follow the sound of voices until I reach the dining room.
The air shifts slightly, heavy with the scent of polished wood and freshly prepared food. The table is long and rectangular, deep mahogany gleaming under the warm chandelier overhead. Silverware is laid out with meticulous precision, and delicate china rests atop starched, white tablecloths.
At the head of the table sits my father, impeccably poised in a sharp suit that hugs his fit frame even at his age. To his left, side by side, are Roman and Kirill, dressed identically in black T-shirts and black cargo pants, casual for the tush gangsters I know them to be, their posture alert as they watch my every move. I should know, I fell in love with one.
My heart aches the moment I think about Ilay. I push the feeling aside though. I have to do what my mother asked me.
