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So he’d left me alone, had told me he wanted to give me some time alone, that he wanted me to rest and eat. He said I was too skinny, malnourished… that he wanted to take care of me.
I couldn’t help but think that my life was such a mess, this chaos of dark situations. I had other people now in the mix, something that obviously did not sit well with me, but I couldn’t do this alone.
I stood and walked over to my bag, digging inside for the burner phone and slip of paper with Marina’s number. I hadn’t told Frankie about it, a part of me knowing that if I did, it would worry him even more. I’d seen the hard look move across his face when I told him everything about Maximillian. I felt like that was probably the hardest blow to him, him knowing I would have been married to someone else, forced or not. Frankie had been so possessive of me… and I still felt that come for him when he looked at me.
Frankie let me stay in his room, and although a part of me wished he stayed in here with me, if for anything else than for comfort, he reiterated again that he wanted me to have some space.
And I knew that was the best course of action right now. Because truthfully… if he’d stayed with me, I wouldn’t have been able to control my emotions. I would have wanted to be with him in every single way, getting lost in the feel of his hardness against my softness, of our bodies moving together as we sought release.
I’d need that so much that it would have complicated things even more.
I knew he wasn’t far, probably in the room right next door. He’d told me over and over again that he wouldn’t leave my side, that he wouldn’t let me be taken from him again.
I took the burner phone and number and went into the bathroom, turning on the light and shutting the door softly. My heart was racing as I closed the toilet lid and sat down, flipping open the phone with one hand and unfolding the tiny piece of paper with the other one.
And then I just sat there and stared at the open phone, my hands shaking and my heart racing. I was so nervous, scared of Marina answering. Terrified of her not answering.
Maybe anxiety was high in me, because this was a one-shot deal, talking to Marina. I missed her so much. Or maybe I was worried that I’d call and she wouldn’t answer, that something happened to her even though she told me she’d be fine, that she’d be safe. She knew how dangerous it had been helping me. She may have been my father’s employee, but she knew how deep the bratva ran, how long and wide their connections were.
She knew what she’d be risking, yet she helped regardless.
I tried to not let those thoughts consume me, scare me into not following through. Now was the only time to do it, the safest. And as I punched in the number and hit send, putting the phone to my ear and listening to it ring, I swore my heart stopped as I waited for someone to answer. The longer it rang, the more I started worrying my bottom lip with my teeth, this bad feeling starting to form in the pit of my stomach.
I kept chanting in my head, Please, please, please. I kept praying to whoever would listen that she’d pick up. And just as I closed my eyes, feeling emotions move through me in waves, despair and depression, a hollowness that suffocated me, someone answered.
Marina breathed out my name in relief.
A choked sob left me, and I felt the smile spread across my face. I felt such relief, so much so it was like I was seeing Frankie again for the first time.
“Marina,” her name spilled from me on this harsh whisper, and she laughed softly, not the kind that was in amusement, but the kind that was also in relief.
She started speaking quickly in Russian, telling me how worried she’d been, how she prayed every night for my safety, for me to find happiness and peace. That I’d found my way. I looked at the closed bathroom door as if I could see Frankie.
I had found my happiness. I had found my way home. She just didn’t know that. No one but my father had known of the relationship I had with Frankie, and I doubted my father would have uttered anything about it to anyone. It was a dirty little secret to him.
And when she finished speaking and a moment of silence stretched out, I took a deep breath, not realizing I’d been holding it. I asked, “You’re okay though? Truly okay?” My voice was a hushed whisper, and I spoke back in our native Russian. “You didn’t get caught up in any of this? Maximillian didn’t find out you helped me?” I was rambling, worried and scared to hear her answer. I worried that if Maximillian went on a killing spree, taking out guests like they were flies at a summer picnic, he’d have no qualms about getting rid of anyone who helped the daughter of Petrov.
