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But tonight, I need Whitney. I dial her number and turn to look out the window of my office as it rings.
“Hey, you. I was starting to think I wouldn’t hear from you today.” Her warm tone soothes me, replacing my inner turmoil with momentary relief.
“Something came up. I will send a driver to collect you and bring you down here. Plan on spending the night. You will be back on time for school tomorrow.”
“Oh, okay. Great,” she says with mild surprise. “I’ll see you soon.”
Hanging up, I approach the window to look out at the darkening sky and the dim landscape of my family’s estate. My father left me with an impressive empire, but one in complete upheaval, a Bratva that had enemies lurking behind every closed door, prepared to jump out and cut our throats at the first opportunity. For a long time, I blamed my father, resented him even, for leaving me with such a burden at such a young age. I had too little experience and needed guidance to be a good leader. Of course, I knew it wasn’t his choice. He didn’t intend to die. Still, I blamed him for it all the same.
And now I’m coming to realize that I’m as helpless to stop this new conflict as he was. I don’t know what’s right any more than he did. There is no perfect set of tools to end a turf war, no clear way to defend my men. All I can give them is my conviction to do whatever it takes to root out these bastards and make them pay. Leaning my palms onto the window ledge, I peer into the night, searching for answers I know I won’t find. Only I can give those answers, but what they might be, I haven’t a clue.
27
WHITNEY
I’m dressed and ready to go by the time Ilya’s driver calls to let me know he’s waiting out front. Ivan and I have been getting to know each other quite well lately it seems, as Ilya’s been sending for me more, rather than coming to see me. As I slide into the black Escalade, Ivan meets my eyes in the rearview mirror as he offers a polite greeting. It took me awhile to break down the walls of the stiff, formal Russian driver, but we’ve finally reached a place where he doesn’t mind all my insufferable questions. I think he might even enjoy my company as we drive across town these days, but it’s hard to tell when he never smiles.
Tonight, I’m surprised when I’m greeted not just by Ivan but one of Ilya’s personal bodyguards, Erik, as well. He turns in the front passenger seat to give me a nod of greeting, and I flash him a smile as I slide onto the soft cream-colored leather back seat and close my door.
“Hey, Erik,” I greet casually.
“Baryshnya,” he says–a term Ivan has explained is the polite way to address a young woman.
All Ilya’s men call me that. I’ve gotten to meet a number of them over the past year, since Ilya started having me come down to his house more often rather than him coming up. And I’ve been impressed by their consistent deferential treatment of me. It goes to show Ilya’s men must respect him a lot to extend that same regard to me without question. Because they’re certainly large enough to do whatever they want.
One thing I can say with confidence is that Ilya’s Bratva is made up of behemoths for human beings. Even Ivan is impressively bulky, and from what I gather, his job doesn’t even entail much heavy-lifting or need for combat. I don’t know if that’s a common Russian trait, a part of being in organized crime, or if Ilya just happens to recruit large, muscular men who could easily snap me in half. At first, it was quite daunting to realize that Ilya, who I’ve always considered exceptional in size, is almost average in both height and muscle mass among his men. But I’ve grown comfortable enough with them over the past months that I even dare to tease them on occasion–though they don’t seem susceptible to my humor. I’ve yet to get a single one to crack a smile.
“So, what’s going on?” I ask as Ivan pulls out onto the highway heading south. “I mean, not that I don’t love your company, Erik,” I joke, “but you don’t normally join me and Ivan for our evening commutes.”
Ivan’s eyes flick up to meet mine in the rearview mirror, and I see a flash of confirmation in them, that tells me something’s going on.
But Erik continues to study the road through the windshield, his face devoid of emotion. “It’s just a precaution.”
That’s the least helpful explanation he could possibly give. I cock an eyebrow, but neither man looks back to acknowledge it. Try as I might, I can’t get the men to break out of their sullen silence as we drive to Ilya’s house tonight, and after ten minutes of concentrated effort, I give up. I guess I’ll have to ask Ilya when I get to his house. But the thought that something might be wrong makes my gut tighten. Ilya didn’t sound himself on the phone. He’d been curt, brusque even and had gotten off the phone as quickly as possible.
I worry my lip as I consider the possibilities. I know he’s been under a lot of stress lately, working long hours as he’s tried to put an end to the Bratva conflict he’s told me a little bit about. That’s been his explanation for calling for me recently and having me driven to him rather than him coming to see me. At first it was only on occasion, but especially over the last month or so, our dates have progressively grown fewer and far between as the pressure he’s under seems to be getting worse.
I know my purpose is to provide him stress relief, to offer him an escape and to meet his needs, and sometimes, he doesn’t have the time or freedom to treat me to the lavish dates we used to go on regularly. But I’ve also started to wonder if it might be because he’s growing tired of me. That this is his response to a waning interest and that he might just send me on my way any day now.
He’s already covered my tuition for the semester, so I have nothing to fear in that regard, but the prospect of him losing interest in me leaves me feeling surprisingly vulnerable, hurt even. And as horrible as it sounds, Erik’s unexplained presence gives me just a hint of hope that it might be all in my head. That Ilya’s distance and preoccupation really does just have to do with the conflict he’s trying to manage.
Lost in my thoughts, I hardly notice the time flying by until suddenly we’re pulling up the long drive into Ilya’s gated property. The house at the end of the driveway is immense, more of a mansion than a house, with an elegant facade covered in creeping ivy that had been a beautiful shade of emerald green in the summer, a stunning purplish crimson in the fall, and now looks woefully dry and dormant in the frigid January climate.
Ivan puts the car in park, and Erik steps out to open my car door and walk me to the front steps.
“He should be in his office,” Erik says, his expression tight as he ushers me into the foyer and gestures in the direction of Ilya’s study.
“Thanks, Erik.” Turning, I head down the wide hall with dark wood flooring and richly patterned runners of red and gold and green.
The door to his office is slightly ajar, so I don’t bother knocking. Instead, I gently push it open, my lips part to announce my presence. But my words die in my throat as shock stops me in my tracks. Ilya stands staring out his window, his hands braced on the window sill, his back to me. He appears completely oblivious to the utter destruction all around him. It looks as though a rabid beast was let loose in the room. Not a single piece of furniture is standing upright. Beautiful leather bound books are strewn across the floor, their spines broken, their pages ripped to shreds. His desk has deep grooves carved into it, and one of it’s ornately carved legs is missing completely. I don’t know what happened here, but whatever it was terrifies me.
“Ilya?” I breathe, taking a tentative step into the demolished room.
He doesn’t respond, though in the window’s slight reflection, I can see his eyes close, and his jaw works forcefully, making the tendons pop. His apparent anger intimidates me—a rare thing—and I don’t quite know how to proceed. After several moments of hesitation, I fortify my resolve and go to him.
He doesn’t move an inch as I pick my way across the graveyard of books and furniture, doesn’t turn to look at me or say a word when I reach his side. I extend my hand to him, resting my fingers lightly on his muscular shoulder, and I find him incredibly tense, shaking with what I can only assume is rage based on his expression.
“What’s wrong?” I ask gently, my voice taking on a tone one might use when unexpectedly faced with a wild animal.
