I glance toward the one-way mirror, where my bedroom sits empty on the other side. “It’s not the Batcave. It’s my reading room.”
“Potato, po-tah-to. You only call from there when you’re either plotting something or avoiding someone. Which is it?”
“Both.”
There’s a pause, filled with muffled voices and laughter on his end. “Hang on, let me step outside. Can’t strategize over the sound of broken dreams and overpriced vodka.”
I wait, hearing the click of a door and the faint rush of wind as he steps onto what I assume is a balcony.
“Right,” Arseny says. “Hit me.”
“I need you to arrange… interviews.”
“Interviews?” His voice lifts with mild interest. “For what?”
I let the word hang, tasting its ridiculousness. “Wives.”
The line goes silent for so long I check to make sure the call hasn’t dropped.
“Arseny.”
A sharp intake of breath, and then his laughter bursts out, unrestrained. “I’m sorry—what? Wives? As in, plural? Or is this a code word for something illegal? Please tell me it’s illegal.”
I rub a hand down my face, irritation simmering. “I’m serious.”
“You’re serious.” His tone shifts from amusement to disbelief, though I can still hear the smirk. “Konstantin Belov, the soon-to-bePakhanof the Bratva, the man who once stared down a firing squad without blinking, is asking me to find him awife?”
“You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” There’s a muffled sound—he’s probably covering the phone to stifle another laugh. “I mean, of course. Who wouldn’t be thrilled to play matchmaker for the most emotionally constipated man in the world?”
“Arseny.”
“But why, boss? I mean… why do you want to voluntarily chain yourself to another woman after—?”
“Don’t.” The word comes out sharp enough to cut glass. “After Irina…” I pause, the name bitter on my tongue. “It’s not voluntary. If I don’t get married soon—everything goes to Filipp.”
“Filipp?” Arseny’s laugh is harsh. “That cocaine-snorting excuse for a stepbrother? The one who can barely run a bath, let alone a criminal empire?”
“Tatiana’s master plan.” I take a long breath, fighting the urge to put my fist through the mirror. “She’s been positioning him for years, apparently. And now my father’s given her the perfect opening.”
“Christ.” Arseny goes quiet again, but I can practically hear his mind working. “You need someone who isn’t going to run.”
The truth of it sits like lead in my chest. Someone who won’t abandon my children. Someone who won’t shatter what little trust they have left.
“Well,” he says after a beat, his usual dry humor returning, “you could’ve just asked me to shoot someone. Would’ve been easier.”
“Can you do it or not?”
“Sure. I’ll set up a casting call. ‘Wife Wanted: Must tolerate brooding warlord and come with references.’ Should I advertise in ‘Vogue’ or ‘Playboy’?”
“Arseny.”
“I’m kidding. Mostly.” There’s a long silence between us, broken only by the distant sound of waves on his end. Finally, he sighs. “I’ll handle it, boss. But for the record, this is the weirdest thing you’ve ever asked me to do—and that includes the time with the alpacas.”
“Good.” I set the phone down, movement in the one-way mirror catching my attention. What I see stops my breath cold.
A woman. In my bedroom. At Shadow Hill.
