“Would you have?”
The question is insulting. So is him acting like I’ve been dishonest when I know he’s kept things from me.
“Like you told me about Victoria?”
Lev looks confused. “What about her?”
“Maksim said she tried to marry you.”
He still appears puzzled. “So?”
“So, that would have been helpful information to know.”
“What would you have done differently?”
Nothing. I knew his loyalties would be torn regarding his family. I was already struggling to understand their dynamic. At least Victoria’s animosity has an explanation.
I don’t answer his question. I counter with one of my own. “Why didn’t you marry her?”
“I didn’t want to.”
I scoff. “Then why did you marry me?”
His immediate, “I wanted to,” was not the answer I was anticipating.
You know whyorit was necessarywould have been predictable, safe responses.
The shrill ring of a phone interrupts the silence that lurks in the wake of his reply. Lev skips the ladder or stairs, hoisting himself out of the water in one smooth motion and heading for the open terrace doors that lead inside.
I sink below the surface and contemplate staying where it’s calm and cool and uncomplicated forever.
VELELLA VELELLA
After dinner, I suggest we go down to the private beach. It’s low tide, meaning the small cove should be sandy enough to walk along.
Carina agrees cautiously. We spent dinner discussing the villa’s decorations and Italian climate, carefully avoiding any sensitive topics.
Fucking Maksim. He should have kept his mouth closed about Victoria.
And I should have shut up about Andrea. I saw the guilt flash across Carina’s face—exactly what I wanted to protect her from. Chances are, Igor would have found a way to mention his death to her if I hadn’t, and my father’s motivation would have been as cruel as mine.
I wanted to punish her for putting herself in danger. If Igor claims she sent intelligence to her family, no one will argue that Carina deserves our protection, no matter her last name. It was stupid to burn the letter before it could be translated, but I was concerned about what it might say. I don’t believe Carina would knowingly share secrets with her family, but even the smallest of details could be harmful in the wrong hands.
If I return to Serebryanovo alone, everyone will believe that narrative.
Carina suddenly pauses our slow descent, then starts running down the remaining steep steps. Her bare feet slap against solid stone.
I tense, reaching for my gun and scanning our surroundings. The sun hasn’t set yet, its reflection off the calm sea blinding. No boats are visible on the water, no one in distress that I can see. Nothing on the cliff or overhead either.
Finally, I see what she noticed. Smell it, rather. The beach is fully exposed, large swaths of sand covered with dead sea creatures that have been baking in the sun for hours. The fishy, decaying aroma makes me want to gag. For some reason, Carina’s rushing closer to it.
I call her name, taking the steps two at a time to try to catch up. We reach the bottom stair at the same time, yet Carina tries to keep going. I wrap an arm around her waist, holding her back from the beach.
She attempts to pull away for a couple of seconds, and then her body goes limp.
“They’rela barchetta di San Pietro,” she says mournfully.
“Small boat of … Saint Peter?”
