Viktor’s words are echoing around and around in my head still. He sounded like he made a declaration of war, and with one stupid night with him, one night of throwing caution to the wind, I’m caught in the crossfire. In a twisted way, his possessiveness, his fierce need to protect what is “his,” is the only thing keeping me safe.
The image of his face, contorted with rage, his eyes burning with a dangerous fire, flashes in my mind. He’s a monster, yes. But he’smymonster now. And for the first time, I understand the chilling truth of that statement. My safety, Eliza’s safety, is tied to his power, to his ruthlessness.
I close my eyes, trying to find some semblance of peace. The future stretches before me, uncertain and fraught with danger. But one thing is clear: My life, our lives, will never be the same.
We’re in Viktor’s world now. And we’ll have to learn to survive in it. The game has begun, and I’m on the field, whether I want to be or not.
16
LEAH
“So, you’re telling me that all this—” I wave my hand at the grand ballroom spread out before us “—all the money raised here tonight is going to?—”
I cut my sentence off, afraid someone might hear, even though we’re on a raised indoor balcony looking down at everyone.
“No.” Viktor leans on the railing, hands clasped, blue eyes on the milling crowd dressed in their black-tie best below us, the hum of conversation and music like a soundtrack. “All the money here tonight is going to the charity. The charity does good work in the boroughs, particularly in the inner cities. But I use the charity to—” he pauses, searching for the most subtle wording “—ensure our money comes from a legitimate source.”
In a bizarre twist of fate, not a week after someone tried to kill me on a Brooklyn sidewalk, and I was moved suddenly and without choice to Viktor’s enormous Upper East Side mansion, I’m at the fundraising gala with him like it’s a normal thing to do.
Even up here, where I take refuge from the press of the crowd, the overpowering scent of expensive perfume and anundercurrent of things less palatable—secrets, power, money, and judgment—I feel uncomfortable. I smooth the silk of my gown, a deep forest green, and feel the subtle swell of my belly beneath it. The seamstress gathered the fabric in a way that hides it, but of course, I’m hyperaware of my secret.
I feel like everyone can see it.
Heads had turned as we’d entered fashionably late in what I’m sure was a calculated move on Viktor’s part.
The attention was not just for him, but forus. For me. I was the woman on his arm, someone new, someone entirely outside of this well-heeled, blue-blooded circle. I can still feel their eyes on me, dissecting, judging, wondering just who the hell I am to arrive on Viktor Antonov’s arm.
He’s wearing what I’ve come to learn is the Antonov crest, just like the night I saw him at the charity gala for animals—the simple pin makes a not-so-simple statement, just as it is a statement when Viktor’s hand settles on the small of my back, a possessive warmth that both comforts and cages. He’s a fortress, a solid wall of tailored black suit, and an aura that demands deference. I’ve seen it all night, the way even people I recognize from the society pages, the billionaires and upper-crust royalty and tabloid darlings of the Upper East Side, bow and scrape to Viktor.
This isn’t just any charity dinner. This isthecharity dinner. The one for the “Children’s Future Foundation,” a name so saccharine, it almost chokes me. Viktor is a trustee, a benevolent patron. He’s smiling, nodding, a picture of philanthropic grace as he leads me back downstairs, my respite over.
For some reason, perhaps because he’s trying to get me to trust him, or because he’s opening his world up to me, making me feel more a part of it, Viktor told me the shadow reason for this charity gala. He told me of discrepancies, of the way money flows in and out of shell corporations, of neatly laundered money through the guise of good deeds. It’s an elegant, insidious dance. Crime and charity, hand in hand, the knowledge of which is a cold, hard knot in my stomach.
Viktor helps people, yes, but he also uses them. The duality of him, the brutal tenderness, the dangerous charm, it’s all here in the man helping me down the last step to the ballroom floor, his hand gentle but firm around mine.
“Are you comfortable?” Viktor murmurs in my ear as he replaces his hand on my back, his voice a silken rumble next to my ear.
I nod, forcing a smile. “As comfortable as one can be in a room full of sharks in designer clothing.”
He chuckles, a deep, resonant sound. “And you are with the biggest shark of all.” His grip tightens almost imperceptibly, a silent warning, a promise.
We navigate the room, a slow, deliberate procession. Viktor continues our dance from earlier, introducing me to a dizzying array of faces: politicians with too-white smiles, businessmen with too-sharp eyes, and a few, like Viktor, who carry an unspoken weight, a dangerous stillness. Each introduction is brief, polite, and carries an undercurrent of something more. They assess me, these people, trying to decipher my place in Viktor’s world. Intheirworld.
A man approaches, his build as formidable as Viktor’s, his eyes a startling shade of ice blue. He’s young and has a scar bisectinghis left eyebrow, giving him a perpetually stern expression. He wears his suit with an air of casual menace, like a predator momentarily appeased, but always looking out for its next meal.
“Dmitri,” Viktor says, his voice devoid of its usual warmth, taking on a harder edge. “Allow me to introduce Leah, my partner.”
The words hang in the air:partner. Not girlfriend, not mother of my child. Partner. In Viktor’s world, I suppose, that word carries weight. It signifies trust, involvement, a shared destiny. It’s a declaration.
Dmitri’s gaze sweeps over me, slow and assessing, lingering. A flicker of something I can’t quite decipher crosses his face. He nods, a curt, almost imperceptible movement.
“Leah,” he says, his voice gravelly, his Russian accent thick, “a pleasure.”
“It’s nice to meet you, too,” I reply, my voice surprisingly steady.
Dmitri and Viktor exchange a few words in rapid Russian, their voices low, their expressions unreadable. I don’t understand a word, but I enjoy listening to the lilt, the rounded edges, the clipped consonants. It’s actually sexy.
The flow of Russian stops when a voice, sharp and cutting, slices through the hum of conversations in the ballroom. “Well, well, if it isn’t the little gold digger.”
