We rode in silence to the Vasiliev mansion. If I hated how Ivan was in the Bugatti, how his hands groped and manhandled me whilst trying to drive at the same time, I disliked the limo even more. I hated it in fact, because in it, Ivan did not have to focus on the road. There was room to move, room to take more of what he wanted, room to fuck. If tonight went well, the sex would be fast and feverish. If things went poorly… Ivan would take his time and make it hurt. Unable to punish Eduard, he would punish me. The most recent bruises on my ass and hips had finally faded. My skin was milky pale and unmarked now. But the deep purple marks from his greedy touch never stayed gone for long.
I wish it wasn’t the limo. Even the Rolls would be better. Smaller, less room to move.
My heart felt like a dying, pathetic bird in my chest. Thrumming along, with little will to recover.
The Vasiliev estate was the size of a small town. The iron gates parted slowly, revealing a long drive lined with manicured bushes which circled around a fountain. There was a second entrance, for immediate family and personnel, which was shorter and less impressive. But guests came this way; I could only imagine it served to inspire awe and intimidation.
Our chauffeur navigated the circle, coming to a stop ten feet from the stone stairs that led to the dark wood double doors. The columns were glossy, completely clean, like they were scrubbed daily, and animals and filth were forbidden from ruining their perfection.
Ivan exited first after Decatur opened the door, standing stoically and arranging his suit and tie. My heart beat wildly as I followed him, sliding across the lush leather seats.
The house was massive, looming over me menacingly. Its windows blinked at me. They taunted me.
We know what your parents did.
We know what you did.
We know who you kissed.
You’ll be held accountable for your actions.
“Marisha,” Ivan’s voice called my attention from the accusing mansion; his tone was a warning. Tonight had to go well. I must be present, focused, charming. I must be everything he needed and more.
I threaded my arm through his so that he could lead me up the stairs. As I raised my leg to mount the risers, the dress slipped apart to reveal a front slit that was hidden when I was standing or walking on flat ground. Ivan’s eyes flicked down to the freckled expanse of my thighs as they came into view between the parting of the airy material.
“You would do best to keep yourself covered, wife, and be the picture of virtue you were when I married you.” He stopped us at the top of the stairs, on the expansive half-circle of architectural stonework. Ivan leaned in, his lips at my ear. “Show them the virgin, untainted by her family’s sins.”
Biting my lip nervously, I gave him a small nod. It seemed to satisfy him.
Ivan’s head flashed forward as the double door entrance swung wide to reveal a butler dressed in a sharp black suit.
“Mr. and Mrs. Zolotov. Welcome.” He stood to the side, allowing us to pass him and enter the foyer that dripped money. It was tastefully done of course, but anyone with an eye for quality would recognize the antiquities. A matching pair of 18th century Venetian vases sat delicately atop column bases and flanked the winding marble staircase. The pair of chairs beneath a huge beveled mirror were from a Russian designer who, I’d thought, had gone into retirement. At market, his work would bring thousands for even a single chair like that. To use his talents when he was no longer working… Money really could buy everything. That was the way of things. Of course, no Russian in their right mind would refuse Eduard I imagined.
The butler led us into a large sitting room. A fire burned brightly in the hearth, and a large pool table sat at the far end.
“Please wait here. Mr. Vasiliev will be with you shortly.” He gave a small bow and went to exit the room. Ivan stopped him.
“Is only Mr. Vasiliev attending tonight’s dinner.” My husband’s voice was displeased, though he only objected with his tone, and not his words. If Evelina did not wish to be here tonight, there was little that could be said.
“Mrs. Vasiliev is out of town and now unable to join you. She left behind her apologies. Mr. Vasiliev looks forward to meeting with you, Mr. Zolotov. I will ensure your wife is comfortable until the meal is served.” Again, the butler dipped into a small bow and then backed out of the room, pulling the doors closed behind him.
A wave of relief flooded over me. I would not have to put on a show for the Bratva Queen. When Eduard and Ivan went off to discuss our situation, I would be alone. It was a mercy.
Ivan stared into the fire for a moment, his expression at war. Evelina’s absence was a slight. If the Vasilievs truly wanted to settle the issue, they would both be in attendance. There would be formalities in place. Tonight, however, was something different. The dinner was meant to test the waters, not finish the matter to completion. No matter what, we would leave here still carrying the stain of our marriage and my family’s betrayal.
“You will not speak to anyone while I am with Eduard. Do you understand? The Vasiliev estate has ears everywhere. Any misstep will be seen and reported. I had thought Evelina would keep you company, and that your behavior with her would help our cause.” He looked at me, hooded gaze piercing through me like an arrow. “Do not speak to anyone,” he repeated.
“I understand, Ivan. I will remain here and wait for dinner.”
No sooner had I said the words, but the doors to the living room opened again. The butler stood at attention. And Eduard Vasiliev, tall and dressed to the nines in a navy-blue suit and silver tie, waited for our greetings.
“It is an honor to dine here tonight,” Ivan spoke clearly, confidently, dipping his head slightly.
I followed suit, my legs unsteady beneath me at the sight of Eduard. “Yes, thank you for your kind invitation. You are merciful for looking past my bloodline.” The words felt parroted and poisonous from my mouth; they were lines fed to me by Ivan. The right things to say, the right expression, the right posture.
Eduard barely acknowledged my words with an almost imperceptible nod of his head. “Ivan, let us talk so that we can move onto more pleasurable affairs. I have asked the chef to prepare your favorite. Kobe beef filet with foie gras and black truffles.” He began walking away, not waiting on Ivan to follow.
Ivan gave me a stern, reminding glance as he left the room.
