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He curses at me before hanging up.
Valentina’s watching me, a frown etched on her worried face. “What’s wrong? Is my grandmother okay?”
“For now.” I drum my fingertips against the armrest. I don’t want to worry her before I have any concrete evidence. But if I find out that Katya is the reason Valentina left, and that she’s been keeping my wife hidden from me all these years?
I’ll pull the bitch apart, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but blood and bone.
Valentina doesn’t have to know her grandmother is a traitorous bitch. It might be better for her to think that she has some redeemable blood relatives.
After all, the reality that we’re all villains might be a weight she’s not able to carry just yet.
Not until she’s sitting on a throne of gold, wearing our bloodied Bratva crown one hundred percent by choice.
Until then, I’ll carry the weight for her.
It’s the least a king can do for his queen.
Chapter 14
Valentina
All three men become very busy, very fast.
Andrei paces back and forth in his office, on the phone more often than not, and spends the rest of his time sitting in meetings in the dining room and yelling at people in Russian. I can hear him all the way down the hall, no matter where in the house he is, and as much as I want to ask him what’s wrong, part of me doesn’t want to know.
There are guards posted around every corner, and I know that’s no accident. Security detail has tripled since I first arrived.
I worry my bottom lip between my teeth as I think of my grandmother. Andrei said she was okay, but only for now. Is someone coming after her? Who would hurt a little old lady?
Andrei would, my inner voice reminds me, thinking back to his veiled threat during our first dinner together.
Well, he didn’t say he would hurt her, but he implied it. And if that’s how Andrei a man who actually knows her, handles her, I don’t want to imagine what a stranger might do.
I know she’s tougher than she looks, but still. She smokes a pipe and laughs at the same soap operas every week. Surely, she can’t be viewed as a threat.
With no answers and no burly Russian men to pester with questions, I busy myself by rereading books in the library I’d long forgotten about, or chatting with whichever staff is available for small talk. I know I’m meant to run the house, but it practically runs itself. I think the kitchen staff humors me by letting me choose one of the entrees for dinner each night, and the gardeners are so focused on their tasks that they forget I’m standing there half the time.
After five years of working a normal job, it’s strange not to have one to occupy my time. I find myself growing restless. It would be one thing to be on vacation and know I’m meant to relax, but there’s a thread of tension pulled tight throughout the house, making relaxation impossible. I can’t even sketch; my hands shake whenever I try to hold a pencil.
To top it off, ever since Mikhail’s mysterious news, I’m having trouble sleeping.
Judging by the dark circles permanently etched under Ezra’s eyes, I’m guessing he’s struggling too. We run into each other on late-night rendezvous in the kitchen. He takes swigs of clear vodka and smokes a cigarette by the open window while I make us both sandwiches.
We don’t talk, but at least he accepts the roast beef and swiss and humors me by taking a few bites.
Mikhail is nowhere to be found, and without a cell phone to message him or a carrier pigeon waiting on standby, I’m out of luck, as far as figuring out what he’s up to.
On day four of my newfound alone time, I wander the house until I find myself standing in front of the morgue’s shining, silver door.
The day I infiltrated the estate, I found Ezra napping next door to the corpses.
A shiver runs down my spine. Why he would choose that bedroom over all the others is a mystery I’m not sure I want to solve.
With a sigh, I push open the door to the morgue. If I’m lucky, I can catch him in bed again. He’ll be so sleepy that he’ll tell me all the boys’ secrets and admit what the hell they’re all up to when they’re too busy to so much as say hello to the girl they’ve kidnapped and hold hostage?—
My shoe slides across the waxed floor as I slip on something wet. With a shriek, I catch myself on a silver table before I can bust my ass. Metal instruments clatter noisily as I hoist myself up and check what the hell I just stepped in.
Bright red spots—no, splatters—paint the room like confetti. Streaks of it congregate in the middle of the room, with footprints and, oh god, handprints smattered all around.
