“I’ll be in the shower.”
Why did he have to say it like he did—low and intimate, like he’s letting me in on a secret?
He gives his head a shake, flicking a few errant drops of his sweat from his brow onto my blouse, and walks down the long hallway. The drops bloom for a second, then soak the fabric with his darkly masculine scent.
Chewing my lower lip, I watch him walk down the long hallway to a room, doing my best to not imagine hot water running down his scarred body and dark tattoos.
The top button of my blouse now feels like it’s choking me, and even though I know it’s a bad idea, I reach up and pop it open. I’ll button it back up later, I tell myself, before he comes back. And in the process, I give the seven-pointed star a squeeze.
“Ms. Creminelli?”
I spin around and see an older woman standing behind me. Her face betrays nothing, and her hands are clasped in front of her.
My hand tightens around the pendant. Where the hell did she come from? Did she see all of that?
If she did, she's being awfully discreet about it. I figure she has to be. After all, who knows how many women Slava has brought back into this apartment.
“I’m Ludmilla.” Her accent is thick, but warm. There’s an unexpected kindness in her eyes that makes her seem almost out of place here. “Please, follow me.”
Wordless, I fall into step behind her down the other hallway, cheeks burning and fighting the desperate urge to look back at the hallway Slava disappeared down.
The penthouse unfoldsaround me as Ludmilla leads me through its labyrinthine interior. We walk past a dining room with a table that can easily seat twenty. Next is a library with leather-bound books that I suspect are organized by color rather than content. Then, we move past a single room where I notice a thin layer of dust on the door handle.
Everything in here is perfectly placed, perfectly curated, and perfectlycontrolled. It takes me a moment to notice that there are no family photos and no personal touches.
This place doesn’t feellivedin. It just exists. My fingers continue squeezing the pendant as I walk.
“How long have you worked for him?” I ask, more to fill the silence than anything else.
Ludmilla glances back at me. “I’ve worked for Slava Danilovich for fifteen years.”
“I thought his name was Slava Romanov?”
“Russians prefer using each other’s patronymics to show our respect, and pay honor to our fathers.” Ludmilla dips her head. “May I ask what your father’s name was?”
“Elio,” I say, and my voice quivers a little. It’s been so many years since I said Dad’s name out loud, and time has not dulled the pain.
“Thank you, Bella Eliovna.”
“Please,” I say. “Just Bella is fine.”
“Very well, Bella it is.”
We look at each other for a moment, and I find my voice again. “Fifteen years is a long time.”
“It is.” She pauses at a door and turns to face me fully. “But not as long as some would think.”
“What do you mean?”
For a moment, I don’t think she’s going to answer. But then, her expression softens and she sighs.
“I came to work for Slava Danilovich after my son Ivan was killed.” She says it matter-of-factly, but there’s no hiding the grief churning under the surface. “He died in service of the Bratva.”
“And you chose to work for Slava?” I can’t keep the disbelief out of my voice. “Why?”
Ludmilla’s smile is sad and knowing. “Because Slava Danilovich believed Ivan’s death was his fault, and he wanted to make sure I was taken care of.”
“If he wanted to take care of you, he didn’t have to make you work.”
