“You did. And now lots of people want to work with me.”
“Loyalty matters as much as money.”
“Says the man who married a woman who was already engaged.”
“That arrangement was between Salvatore Caruso and Nico Morello. She wanted a choice. I gave her one.”
“For nothing in exchange?”
“I got plenty out of it.”
“What?”
“Her.”
Malcolm laughs and sips, not taking my answer seriously.
The man has obviously never been in love.
That thought prompts a spurt of panic I’m careful not to show. Because what the fuck? I care about Carina—a lot. There isn’t a single aspect of my life that hasn’t been upended in her interest. There’s no one else I would make that sort of sacrifice for. And I didn’t do it because of debt or out of obligation. I did it because I wanted to. But that doesn’t mean I’min lovewith her. Does it?
“You’re worried I handed things over to Adrian to screw you over? It didn’t have a damn thing to do with you, Malcolm. I wanted to spend more time with my wife.”
For the first time all evening, Malcolm is silent. We caught up for a while before I steered the conversation to business since I hadn’t been to Chicago since the winter. We’re friends, of a sort, I suppose, although I don’t have enough of those to make a sure assessment. Whatever we are, it’s secondary to profit.
Finally, Malcolm drains his glass and sets it down. “I’ll meet you and the replacement for dinner tomorrow night. If he impresses me, I’ll stay. None of theyou’ll never notice Lev leftornothing will changebullshit. I want a clear strategy for further expansion. And a five percent bump in my share.”
My jaw works. Neither is an unreasonable request. Both are smart asks on his part. I wouldn’t have flown all the way here if we wanted to cut ties on our end.
Adrian is experienced and competent. But he’s a soldier, trained to take orders. He came to Chicago to take over an existing operation, not reinvent a better and bigger version. Part of why Malcolm and I worked well together was that I was looking for an ambitious project. I’d spent my teenage years in a strict hierarchy that kept me secondary to my father and Aleksandr. Coming here elevated me to being in charge. I was hungry to prove myself. Then I met Carina, and Chicago became even more appealing.
I finish my drink and set it down beside his. It’s after midnight, and I apparently have a lot of strategizing to discuss with Adrian tomorrow.
Before I stand to leave, I remind Malcolm, “I don’t negotiate for nothing. You’d better bring something new to the table too.”
He nods an acknowledgment before I head for the exit.
“Congratulations on the wedding,” he calls after me.
THIS IS ME TRYING
I’m staring at the black screen of the phone Lev gave me, trying to come up with a message appropriate to send to the man who married me because my father is heartless and his is opportunistic, when there’s a knock on the door.
I check the time, shocked to see it’s already seven. Dinner is delivered exactly on time every day—the only proof that anyone aside from Maksim, who’s continued running with me every morning, remembers that I’m living here. I take the delivery to mean I’m not welcome downstairs, although I can’t picture the Sokolov family breaking bread and sharing stories about their days.
I stand, folding up the letter I was attempting to write my father before I switched to trying to text Lev. I don’t owe Salvatore any apology, and yet … I want him to know I’m not being held here against my will. That I chose this because he had limited my options, but also because I wanted it. Maybe that will disappoint him—that I found a silver lining—but at least my conscience will be clean.
I slide the folded paper between two books on the shelf before continuing toward the door.
I open the door to an unwelcome surprise—the same maid who was in my room a few days ago. Again, her expression balances on the edge of hostility as she holds the covered tray out.
I force a smile, refusing to appear intimidated as I reach for the handles to take the tray from her. “Thank you.”
She appears reluctant to release her grip, but she finally does, dusting her hands along what I know is scratchy fabric.
Uneasily, I wonder if she spit in my food.
“I’m Carina,” I say.
