“Smith,” I try again after unsuccessfully rattling the lock three times.
It feels like I’m thrust into a mean, demoralizing game I’ll never win when a churlish voice asks, “Aren’t you going to answer your phone?”
I peer at the camera in the corner of the room before shaking my head. I can’t testify that Dimitri is watching me, but it feels as if he is.
It dawns on me that I’m on the money when his thick Italian voice asks, “Why not? Estelle hasn’t heard from you in almost two weeks. I’m sure she’s getting worried.”
Air whooshes out of the speakers when I say, “I’m sure she is, but I don’t want to fail your test.”
“Who said I’m testing you?” The way Dimitri speaks freely down the line assures me he’s the only one listening in. He is close with Rocco and Smith, but I doubt even they truly know how many layers he has. “Perhaps I’m trying to stop you from getting hurt.”
“You can protect me better in person than you ever could locking me away.”
I’m hoping my confession will have him deliberating for a minute.
He doesn’t even give it a second.
“Although I appreciate your confidence, I disagree, and that’s why I’m going back on my earlier offer. You’re to stay in your room until I permit you to leave. Do you understand?”
“No,” I say with a brutal shake of my head. “I did as you asked. I proved I’m on your side.”
I push down on the door handle for the fifth time. It fails to budge just as much as Dimitri’s domineering personality.
“Dimitri!”
I bang on the door three times, confident the lack of static above my head means he’s no longer listening to me but unwilling to give up. He’s not being fair, and I’m about ready to call him out on it.
“You’re not thinking rationally! I passed your test. I’m on your side!”
I continue screaming until the hum of a fleet of top-of-the-line SUVs stops buzzing in my ears, and the debilitating silence surrounding me stretches to days.
Thirteen
Dimitri
Iglare at Rocco as if he’s standing directly in front of me instead of peering at me through the camera propped above Roxanne’s door. “Make her eat.”
He places down Roxanne’s untouched breakfast onto a side table in the hallway before asking, “And exactly how would you like me to do that, D? Ram the bacon down her throat.”
“If that’s the only way you can get her to fucking eat, then yeah, ram it down her throat.” I lower my voice a few decibels when my roar gains me the attention of a handful of staff at Petretti’s restaurant. I’m hiding out like a coward, pretending its business as usual even with it feeling anything but.
Our second search of Roxanne’s grandparents’ estate found bodies. No, you didn’t hear me wrong. I said bodies as in multiple victims. Although preliminary findings lead us to believe the decomposition of the female bodies points to them being buried quite a few years ago, I know for a fact you can alter the decay of a corpse to make aliases more concrete.
It’s a little hard to pin a murder on someone when the victim supposedly died while you were in another country. Add that knowledge to the fact several victims were in their final months of pregnancy, and Fien’s ransom request arriving a week earlier than usual, for triple the amount, and you’ve got me with a ton of attitude I could easily take it out on the wrong person. Since I don’t want that person to be Roxanne, I need to maintain distance between us.
I said her mother’s verdict would be her choice, that I wouldn’t kill her until she gave me permission. I don’t see me keeping my word if I discover her mother buried my wife on her family ranch, then lied about it. I gave Sailor plenty of chances to come clean, so she will lose more than an ability to lie if I find out she has played me for a fool.
As if the above matters aren’t enough to make my mood the sourest it’s ever been, I looked into Theresa’s claim my father got friendly with a Russian enemy’s wife. I want to report that her claims are as bogus as my oath she gives good head, but that would make me as deceitful as her.
Nikolai isn’t Vladimir Popov’s son. That doesn’t automatically make him a Petretti, but his markings most certainly do.
He has icy blue eyes—just like me.
He has the makings of a madman—just like me.
And he hates his father with every fiber of his being—just. Like. Me.
If traits replicated genes, our similarities would automatically make us comrades. Alas, the fact we could be related won’t do Nikolai any favors. If anything, it will make matters worse. I’m not giving up my throne for anyone, much less a Russian. I’d send every member of my family to the grave before I’d ever let our sanction be run by a Russian. The Petretti name isn’t what it once was, but that doesn’t mean it’s worthless. Honor comes in many forms. The past is just one of them.
