Page 39 of Brutal Vows

I can’t spot any cameras in the bedroom, but as soon as I walk out into the living space, my Bratva instincts home in on where a camera is hidden in the air conditioning control box on the wall. Clever. Not clever enough.

There’s no knowing whether it will be on or recording, but one thing is sure: I’ll have eyes on me at random times. At least Ivan never sank to this level of depravity in my quarters at home, but now, the rest of his house is rigged to the teeth with cameras. You only get to survive a coup once. Ivan isn’t taking any chances with his girls in tow.

I amble over to the fridge and study its contents. Vacuum-packed tuna steaks, chicken breasts, tenderloin, Greek yoghurt, endless vegetables already prepped. Everything a man on a serious health drive would eat. Good. Excellent. Fucking great. Not a cookie in sight. I’ll have to become a domestic goddess and bake for what it’s worth, to fatten myself up nicely so I have back-up fuel for the day I get to run.

I end up making a coffee and am contemplating taking the ridiculous bow off the piano when my phone vibrates. I pull it from my pocket. Masha. At last.

Sorry for only getting to you now. Was exhausted last night. Slept in. Came and crashed and then had to get up several times.

I close my eyes. She shouldn’t be the one doing this. She’s still typing, and I wait for the one thing I’m never going to get: a photo. We agreed to this arrangement before I left. No evidence, no images, no proof. We write in code all the way.

Everything is fine. Tell me about your HUSBAND! How exciting…? Or…?

I grimace at her feigned enthusiasm for my arranged marriage, because Masha didn’t support my plan. From my side, I had no other options. Plus there’s no code needed here. There’s nothing to hide. If someone intercepts and reads her messages, the fact that I’m married now is word I want to spread so the Bratva can scratch me off their to-do list. I sit down on the sofa and put my coffee on the table.

Husband is a hot Mafia speed freak who loves Ducatis, tuna steaks, and rubbery chicken breasts. Also bought me a Steinway as a wedding present, making me feel like shit.

Masha: No way! A Steinway?

Me: Concert grand.

Masha: You’re kidding me. Obviously he’s loaded, but is he really hot, like in Italian hot?

Hot doesn’t cut it. Luca is dangerous.

Me: Owns a yacht. And not a small one. Pretty loaded.

She knows some of how this marriage came about, as I sent her the basics when I started concocting this plan—nothing to give me away to Ivan, only to assure Masha I wasn’t forced into a marriage at gunpoint. There’s no network at her parents’ isolated hunting lodge, but she received my messages as soon as she got coverage on the road back to Saint Petersburg.

Masha: How long before you can come home for a visit?

My heart stings with a kind of pain I didn’t know existed until I got myself into this mess.

Me: I don’t know. As fast as I can, obviously.

Masha: I know, malysh. I’m preparing for your return. We’ll be ready and waiting. And then we’ll end this once and for all.

Once and for all? How?

I want to ask her what she means, because it sounds freaking ominous, but the front door clicks open and Luca walks in. I drop my phone beside me. I can’t have him grow suspicious of me, questioning the fact that I’m basically permanently on my phone, messaging someone, tracking her whereabouts, waiting for the worst.

He’s holding an envelope as he crosses to me. “You’ve eaten something?”

Thank God for a neutral topic.

“No, your pristine fridge is a bit too organized for me. I didn’t want to mess with your…meal planning.” How else do you tell your husband you’re a terrible cook and can’t even make a decent borscht?

“No?” He chuckles as he drops down on the sofa next to me, still holding the envelope. “The prep is all Elena. I just throw shit together and pray it’s edible.”

I sigh. What a lie. I bet he throws shit together and it tastes fabulous. I had some of the dinner on his yacht. I’ll bet the epicurean in him is as strong as his Italian nature. As developed as the skill he likely has as a lover. Italians are, after all, known to be the best.

“How often does Elena do housekeeping?” I ask, looking for a female alliance.

“As and when needed. She’s on standby, runs errands sometimes. She’s a proper nonna, in her sixties already. Goes under the radar. Very useful.”

Ah. No chance in hell she’ll crawl into my pocket. Heart and soul sold to these boys and probably as protective of them as a mamma bear.

“This is for you,” he says as he tears open the envelope. “Company credit card linked to one of our businesses.” He folds open the single page and pulls the card free. “The monthly limit is a hundred thousand dollars. Do you think you’ll need more?”