"Yes, we got the news this morning. We were celebrating when this one dragged me from my wife's embrace and told me we were heading for Rome."
Lorenzo looks at me and realizes that telling me he was having sex with his wife when I called for help might not be the best idea. He clears his throat. "
What about Katya? Can she cook?" he asks,
I pause, genuinely unsure what the answer to that question is. We've been married for weeks now and I have no idea if she cooks. I'm guessing not, since she's never offered to help Maria. Bratva princesses are raised to warm their husbands' beds and bear their children, not put home-cooked food on the table.
"I…uh…" My voice falters.
Lukas puts his hand on my shoulder. "You've been married for five minutes, Gabriele. You'll learn all you need to know about her."
"Will I?" What if this is it? The few weeks we spent together might be all we had.
Lukas nods. "Of course you will. Knowing Katya, we'll arrive in St. Petersburg to find her in charge of the Kuznetov Bratva."
I smile at that.
"Sounds like a formidable woman," Damiano says.
"She is."
"I liked her when we spoke." Lorenzo surprises me by adding.
"When did you speak to my wife?"
"Your birthday. She called to thank me for the wine. You're welcome, by the way."
I didn't know about that. Maybe I should be monitoring her calls more closely. First Lorenzo and then her mother. I can't allow her to keep contacting people without my approval, not when she makes dubious choices. When I get her back I'm going to have to lay down a few ground rules. And I will get her back. The rest doesn’t matter.
My hand goes to my pocket where the drawing is nestled. If I have to burn St. Petersburg to the ground and take on the Russian army to get her back, I'll do it.
TWENTY-THREE
Katya
I dreamthat I'm swimming underwater. Only it isn't water. It's something viscous and suffocating, a substance as thick as syrup, and no matter how hard I kick toward the surface I can't break through.
My heart pounds as I struggle to free myself. Panic wakes me with a start.
Blinking to bring the world into focus, I turn my head to the side. The room around me comes into view and its familiarity both soothes and horrifies me.
At least they haven't taken me to some dank cellar. This is my own bedroom in my father's house in St. Petersburg.
The room is as I left it. The walls are pale blue, the carpet cream. My furniture is light oak. The clothes I left strewn haphazardly on the floor when I raced to pack the night I left have been put away.
Swinging my legs out of bed, I stumble through to the bathroom, cup my hands under the cold tap and take a few smallsips. There's an unpleasant metallic tang but if I'm going to die of something I doubt it will be the water.
I straighten and look at myself in the mirror. My hair is a mess, hanging loose from the elegant knot I'd styled it into. I'm still wearing the blue dress I wore to lunch with my mother. That's something, I suppose. I hate the thought of someone stripping me while I was unconscious. Clearly for my mother that was a violation too far.
As I wash my face I consider what a fool I've been. I shouldn't have trusted my mother in the first place but when she chose that venue and I knew something was off, I should have trusted myself.
I replay what happened at the restaurant, my legs going out from under me, someone catching me as I fell, the waiter taking my mother's cash instead of asking questions about the semi-conscious woman being carried outside. Then I think about Santo. Why didn't he come?
He would have, I realize, if he'd been able. Nausea rises in my throat. What if he was hurt? I couldn't bear it. I can’t think about that now, though. Finding a way out of here has to be my priority.
A movement in the bedroom behind me draws my attention. One of the maids is laying a white dress across the bed. I don't like this girl. Dasha is her name, I think.
But of course, I don't like any of the maids who work for my father. He hand-picks them because they're willing to spread their legs for him. I have no respect for any woman who would sleep with Oleg Kuznetov.
