Another glance. Still stone-faced.
Alright, Vivienne. Your turn.
"If you're stressing about how to explain me to your old man," I broke the silence, "I can provide script consultation. I've written this 'bad boy brings mysterious woman home' scenario a thousand times. Usually you've got three options—"
"Vivienne."
"Yeah?"
"Shut up."
I very wisely shut up.
But in my peripheral vision, I clearly caught his rigid jaw relax by half an inch.
I didn't speak again, turning my gaze back to the tree shadows outside. The silence continued, but that crushing low pressure had dissipated.
I settled back in my seat. One small psychological victory.
The car stoppedat the marble steps of the main building.
Sasha got out first and opened our doors. But he made no move to follow. He retreated straight back to the Bentley, hands clasped in front of him like a cold stone statue. Clearly, he had no intention of crossing that threshold.
The Volkov mansion was more classical than I'd imagined—and more oppressive.
Gray stone walls. Symmetrical windows. A flag I didn't recognize hanging from the portico.
As I climbed the steps, I instinctively straightened my spine and switched my clutch to my left hand. Mrs. Gable's words echoed in my ears. "Always keep your right hand free. It's etiquette. It's also instinct."
The old lady probably didn't know that today, for me, that advice was pure survival tactics.
Peter Volkov stood at the entrance to the main hall.
Up close, he looked older than when I'd glimpsed him from across the room at the gala. But that wasn't weakness—it was a ruthlessness honed over decades, completely unreadable. He had the same dark gray eyes as Nikolai. The only difference? Nikolai's sometimes held a trace of human warmth. Peter's eyes were a dry well.
"Nikolai." He opened his arms. A perfunctory embrace that barely touched shoulders.
Then the dry well turned toward me.
"And this—your fiancée?" He barely emphasized "fiancée." His gaze assessed me like merchandise up for auction.
Right. I knew it. I shouldn't have harbored any fantasy that these old-money types—especially mob ones—might be approachable.
"Vivienne Cole." I extended my hand first. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Volkov."
He shook it. The grip was perfectly calibrated, but his eyes lingered on my face two seconds too long.
"Cole." He chewed on my surname. "Common stock?"
"Yes. Common. And penniless." I met his gaze, smile precise. "So I've got nothing to lose, which makes me pretty hard to swallow. Wouldn't you say?"
Beside me, I clearly felt Nikolai's tense arm muscles relax by half an inch.
Peter stared at me for two seconds. A short, cold laugh rolled from his throat.
"Interesting."
He released my hand, turned, and led us inside.
