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“Nice to meet you,” I say politely, my own smile not nearly as dazzling.
Francesca’s smile remains in place as her eyes travel down my body and she makes her initial assessment. “Likewise, Miss Baranova.” She looks back to Mikhail and some of the tension in her shoulders relaxes. I get the feeling that I’m not as welcome as Mikhail.
“We’re here for a tour. Is anyone available?” Mikhail pats the wooden countertop. “I’m afraid I don’t know the place well enough to show Valentina around.”
Francesca bows her head. “Of course. We can get started right away. Let me lock up, so we don’t have any visitors.”
Mikhail’s mahogany eyes stay locked on me as Francesca steps away to turn the heavy lock on the front door. Once she’s returned, she nods toward me, a steely look in her blue eyes. “Welcome, Mistress. You can come any time you like to check on the children. I’m told that both the late Madame and her daughter came here often, though that was before my time.”
The hairs on my arms raise like a ghost entered the room. “The Madame?” The title feels eerily familiar. Where have I heard it before?
Francesca’s brows pinch together, and she takes a quick glance at Mikhail. “Yes, we often refer to her as simply the Madame, but you may know her as Katya Baranova. Her daughter Maeve also took responsibilities here. They’re...your predecessors.”
I turn a glare on Mikhail, but he’s completely at ease, looking nonchalant as he studies a ceramic bust of the orphanage’s founder. Francesca uses his feigned interest as motivation to move on from the tension clearly emanating solely from me, and she proudly declares that the founder and his wife, The Madame, visited up until their deaths.
“She’s not dead,” I scoff, still annoyed that Mikhail decided to unceremoniously throw family history at me. Two can play at that game. “Katya’s very much alive and kicking. Actually, I’m sure she’d love to hear that we’re visiting today. Don’t you think so, Mikhail? Perhaps she can join us?”
I’d love to see my grandmother, truth be told. If I’m not in danger here, and it feels less and less like I’m a prisoner the longer I’m around these men, I don’t know why we can’t both live in the city again. My father’s men aren’t a threat any more, now that Andrei’s in charge as pakhan. Her transgressions against the Bratva, real or otherwise, can be pardoned with a simple flick of Andrei’s wrist. Then, she won’t be labeled a traitor for leaving and won’t be in danger in sudden death or dismemberment.
Besides, if I explain to everyone that it was in my best interest that she left the Bratva with me, I’m sure they would understand . . . or, well, enough of them would for it to matter. And if they don’t understand, she can stay at the estate. The place is a fortress; no one can get in or out without the pakhan’s permission.
Mikhail’s air of nonchalance snuffs out in an instant. He turns his icy gaze on me so swiftly that I flinch. A chill runs down my spine at how cold he suddenly looks. “No, love, I don’t think she can. Katya is not welcome anywhere within this city, dead or otherwise.”
I can’t even enjoy the way he uses the word love, like we’re more than...whatever we are now.
Something’s really wrong, all of a sudden.
“Why not?” I cross my arms defiantly. “She’s my grandmother. I can invite her in if I want.”
Mikhail’s icy expression cracks, and flickers of intense anger ignite in his eyes.
Anger that makes no sense.
“You’ve never even met her!” I don’t know if that’s true, but she’s been with me for the past five years, not here in the city. He wouldn’t have had a chance to run into her at the local coffee shop or bake sale.
Francesca slowly backs away from us, and I don’t blame her.
Mikhail suddenly looks deadly.
He takes deliberate, forceful steps forward, the scowl on his face much more prominent than the grumpy one he hid behind his coffee mug this morning.
“I haven’t had the pleasure,” he says softly, his voice a low purr that sends shivers down my spine. There’s nothing soft about the look in his eye, and I take a step back with each one he advances. “But if I do...” His lips curve up in malice. “Let’s just say, she won’t be able to pay this place a visit as part of the living anymore.”
I’m rendered speechless. My mouth opens and shuts repeatedly, a croaking sound stuck in my throat.
What the fuck?
Mikhail smooths a hand over his hair, and his demeanor returns to normal, his perfect smile sliding back into place. “You were saying, Francesca?”
The woman keeps her composure better than I do. She turns her attention to various objects in the room, detailing everything in excruciating detail, from the stained-glass window high above that came from Italy as a wedding present to my grandmother, to the age of the building and what it was prior to being refurbished and turned into an orphanage decades ago.
Mikhail sticks to my shadow, far enough away that I can’t punch him for being an ass, but close enough that I can feel him hovering. Staring.
On the beach, it was unnerving that he stared at me constantly. The more he stares, whether it’s across the hall or across the dinner table, makes it less nerve-wracking and more normal. Flattering, even, in the right light.
Now, however, it’s insufferable.
I whirl on him and shove both my palms flat against his chest. “Stop it,” I hiss, trying to push him away from me. “Stop staring. I’m mad at you.”
