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“Hmph.” He chuckles deeply, but there’s no mocking in his tone. Admiration instead? “Now, you are thinking like a member of themafiya. So tell me, Rose: How do you plan to react to him?”
* * *
Mafiyahistory lessons seem more like horror stories. Murderers who command respect through their gruesome deeds. Drug smugglers. Politicians who deal in lies. The insights haunt me all night, circling my brain until morning comes.
Mischa plans his “banquet” with little fanfare. It’s almost insulting compared to something one might have found at Winthorp Manor in its heyday. There are no four-course meals planned or tables draped in finery. In fact, the meal itself seems secondary to the true main course: intrigue.
“There,” Mischa says against the nape of my neck. “Watch them. Do you remember your lesson?”
We stand positioned near a window overlooking the front of the manor. The setting sun reflects off a row of black vehicles lined up in the courtyard like children’s toys.
One by one, various figures exit them.
“There’s Boris Lynchkoft,” Mischa remarks, referring to a balding man in a tight suit being ushered from a limo by two men who I assume are bodyguards. “And he…”
“Runs a drug trade,” I rasp, recalling my “history lesson.” “He isn’t loyal to Sergei per se, but he doesn’t like you, either.”
“Good. And him?” He points to a different man exiting a dark sports car this time, flanked by even more muscle.
“Andrei Zagitov,” I say. “He launders money through a shipping operation he owns. Also a somewhat neutral party. Him, along with Alexi Somodorov,” I add, nodding to a different man strolling up the stone path to the manor’s entrance. With a head of silver hair, he’s the oldest man of the bunch. “He controls mercenaries and makes up the last party whose alliances you’re unsure of.”
“Very good.” Mischa flicks his thumb along my chin, guiding my face toward him. In his eyes, I see something that may be amusement. He isn’t scowling for once, either. “You may be able to play the game yet, Rose. But…” He cuts his eyes down to my dress—one of the few from the wardrobe in my room—and frowns. “Not like this.”
“Oh?” I smooth my hands along the cotton skirt. “I never knew you had such an interest in fashion.”
“Fashion?” He scoffs. “It’s presentation. The wolf can’t show up to the den dressed like a sheep.”
“I didn’t know you were poetic, either,” I remark dryly.
“You don’t know a lot of things about me, Rose. But I do have a feeling that Sergei won’t supply you with a dress this time. At least not one fit for a wolf.”
He takes my hand, leading me back through the upstairs level of the manor and into my room.
Sure enough, a dress is waiting for me, draped over the end of my bed.
But I doubt Sergei had a hand in choosing it.
“I guess wolves wear red in your world?” I croak, breathless.
Mischa cups my waist, guiding me back against his chest. “Thiswolf,” he murmurs near my ear. “She is cunning and sly, and she bathes in the blood of those foolish enough to trust her.” I stiffen, but he brushes his lips along my throat, negating any insult his words may contain. “Put it on.”
With him on my heels, I approach the bed and run my fingers along the garment: a silk gown composed of a stunning shade of scarlet.
“It’s beautiful—”
“Here.” Mischa helps me shed my dress and ease the new one over my head.
Spotting my reflection in a nearby mirror, I certainly don’t look like my mother.
Or Briar.
I’m someone new, clothed in blood red that highlights her healing wounds and injuries. Paired with the man beside me, I don’t resemble a captive, either.
“Your necklace.” Mischa runs his fingers along my neck, highlighting the absence of my rose charm. “It’s gone—”
“Robert took it.” I brush my fingers along the hollow spot as my heart pangs. The one thing I may have had of Marnie’s, lost. “But I’m sure that means nothing to you. Mr. ‘there is no point in getting attached to things.’”
“You’re right,” he agrees. “Only a fool would ever think there was something meaningful in some worthless trinket.”
