My Papa slides a tote bag full of small, black electronic devices over the table.
There must behundredsin the bag. Each one is about the size of a fingernail. He sees my confusion.
“Listening devices. Those upstarts are trying to push me out of my own territory. This is your most important task,malyshka. I need them placed in key locations at the port so I have good oversight of the operations.”
“You want me to spy on my husband?”
Papa fixes me with a look that says: Don’t be ridiculous.
“I want you to spy on Aleksandr Zhukov, the man who killed your brothers.”
The message is clear.
He won’t be my husband for long.
11
NATALIA
I’m waiting up for Aleksandr, very patiently, when he arrives at three in the morning shirtless and covered in sweat.Dasha hisses at him as soon as he walks through the door and skulks off to hide in her new cat tower.
“Isn’t it past your bedtime?” His voice is ragged with breathlessness as he strides into the loft, walking towards the kitchen. I follow him, barefoot on the cold, polished concrete.
I don’t ask him where he’s been, though the curiosity surges through me. I’m even more curious about the many tattoos that mark his tanned, liquid-coated skin. He has so many muscles, bulging in places where I didn’t even know muscles existed.
He dips his head and drinks straight out of the faucet, then douses his face under the water too, slicking his hair back. Something about it stops me from saying what I need to say, making my tongue feel heavy in mymouth.
He sees me staring and meets my eyes evenly, waiting for me to speak. It takes me a minute to collect myself after watching him.
“I wanted to talk to you about something.” I cling to the instructions my father gave me and the hope that I can get out of here soon. “I’m bored here. I would like a job.”
Aleksandr lets out a confused laugh. “At the port?”
I nod.
“No.”
His refusal makes me more determined. Of course, I want to get out of here and help my father…but I also hate being told the word no.
“Why not?” I put my hands on my hips and stand in front of him in the kitchen, raising my chin.
He looks down at me with a smile tugging at the edge of his lips, but shakes his head. “You’re not qualified. You don’t seem to get out of bed before ten a.m., ever. Not to mention, you would hate the work we do.” He marks each item by counting them on his inked fingers.
This man has known me for all of one week. He has no idea what I hate.
“How can you say that if you don’t give me the chance to find out?”
He rakes a hand through his hair. Somehow, despite the sweat coating his skin, he smells good. Masculine and clean with a hint of cedar.
“Trust me, princess, work is not more fun than hanging out in this apartment all day. You are not a prisoner here. You can do whatever you want.”
“Like what?”
He lets out an exasperated sigh. “I don’t know — what do you normally do?”
Look at artworks. Read books. Hang out with Dasha. Gossip with Mama and her friends. Whatever my parents are doing on a given day.
I press my lips together in a pout. “More exciting things than this.”
