“So.” I get up, pain twisting my every cell. “Hope that answers your questions. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need some things I know I’m not going to find in this office.”
“What things?”
“Silence. A thick, bloody steak. Ibuprofen. You gave me a headache.”
“Too fucking bad. We’re not done here.” He rounds the table, leaning against its edge with his arms crossed. “What you’re telling me is, we’ve got a contact in Antonio’s party. That gives us options.”
“Why, of course, we’ll dethrone him. You figure out who you want to put in the Don’s place. In the meantime, I’ll take care of the wedding bullshit, and I suspect Antonio will carry on with his act in Chicago until he feels confident to take over the city fully.”
The Bratva and the Cosa Nostra have never been on good terms. And no matter what agreement Antonio and I came to, the alliance is an obvious sham on both ends. We have simply reset the race. He lost something, and we lost something, all so we can begin again in more subtle, tactful ways—my brother’s specialty.
“Good,” Wolf says. “I’d say I’m impressed with the stunt you pulled, but that would mean looking past the fact that you lied to me. Fortunately for you, you already know better than anyone how we punish betrayal.”
As if on cue, the double doors behind me open, and I don’t have to look to know what’s about to happen.
“So dramatic.” I grin just as the weight of a metal chain wraps around my neck from behind. I don’t fight it. The rules of the game are clear, and I grew up learning them—you make thePakhanlook bad, he returns the favor. It’s how I got the many scars on my body, including the one around my eye.
Slowly, my brother stalks closer to me, his stare like pelted bullets. “Never blindside me again.” He jerks his head to the men behind me. “Take him downstairs and teach him a fucking lesson.”
15
Cecilia
Three days pass, and I don’t know what to do with myself. Victoria keeps checking on me, bringing me food and making various suggestions to help me feel better. But there’s no amount of shopping, walking, or riding horses that can take away the enormous weight on my chest.
The harsh air scrapes my throat each morning, a constant reminder of the ocean’s absence, leaving my heart aching with loss. Barely any rays of sunshine spill into this dark room all day long. The frigid temperatures seem to have made a home in my bones, no matter how many layers I wrap myself in.
I hate it here.
Hate that Mikhail left me to my own devices like I was not worth his time anymore.
In that basement, he called for me. Wanted me.Touchedme. When I asked him to let me go, he did—instantly, like he was dropping hot embers. A twisted part of me respected it.
Still, I waited to see if he’d come for me here, if he’d enter my room and do the wicked things he alluded to. Deep down, I hoped he would. Because then, hating him—reallyhating him—would feel as normal as existing.
But he hasn’t come. Instead, he disappeared, completely avoiding me. He doesn’t give a damn I was plucked out of the life I knew and thrown into the unknown.
Thatbastard.
I stand and stomp my way into the hallway in the middle of the afternoon. The wing’s housekeeper, Svetlana, pushes a trolley filled with toilet paper, bathroom robes, and other products. Before she disappears through the door at the end of the corridor, I rush after her, for the first time leaving the confines of my room.
“Excuse me,” I say, realizing how hoarse my voice is. She turns to me with her brows raised, and I clear my throat before I speak again. “I need to talk to Mikhail. Can you please tell me where to find him?”
“V nastoyashcheye vremya on plokho sebya chuvstvuyet.”
I blink, not understanding an iota of what she’s saying. I make a mental note to start learning their language, although I’ve only heard some of the housekeepers insist on using it.
“Mikhail,” I enunciate. “I need to see him.”
She shakes her head then continues walking, as if I’m supposed to suddenly figure out what she means. I trudge after her, frustration licking at my chest as I try to repeat the same words but differently. I don’t know what else to do.
Though, apparently, Svetlana is getting worked up too. The gutting glance she throws me should be enough to make me turn on my heels, but screw it—what is she going to do, take me to Mikhail so he can berate me?
“Listen, I don’t know what you’re saying, but put yourself in my shoes. I was brought here three days ago, and I have no idea where the bastard is!” I say.
She moves faster, forcing me to keep up, until she steps into a room I haven’t seen before. The words die on my tongue as I see a pale figure covered in dark sheets.
Svetlana snaps at me with more words in Russian. A groan splinters the silence, followed by a voice I’d recognize anywhere. “Speak to her that way again, and I’ll make you eat your boiled tongue for breakfast.”
