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Why that detail sets my stomach quivering, I don’t know, but I avert my eyes, picking a seat with unnecessary diligence instead. A thought flashes through my mind, and I wonder if this is the same plane Cassio snuck onto when the Veles kidnapped Bianka.
I assess the luggage compartment more closely with that in mind as Pyotr’s man stashes my roller suitcase in the tiny closet. A slight smile tugs at my lips at the possibility. When I turn back to face the seat in front of me, I catch Pyotr watching me.
The smile falls from my face, and I snatch my small bag off the floor, busying myself with finding my book. Hopefully, he doesn’t dig into my smile. I don’t think he’ll find the story nearly as amusing.
I read the whole flight, and the cabin remains intensely silent except for the occasional tinkle of ice knocking against glass as Pyotr sips his vodka rocks. By the time we land, I think we’ve said all of ten words between us, and I wonder if this might not be how the next sixty or so years of my life could be. It wouldn’t be the end of the world. At least he’s not picking on me.
A driver picks us up from the Teterboro Airport in New Jersey, a spot where private jets line the concrete, waiting to be used. As soon as we step off the plane, I find two burly, broad-shouldered men waiting for us at the car door.
“Silvia, this is Val and Efrem. You might as well get used to having them around. They’re my personal bodyguards and usually go everywhere I go,” Pyotr explains nonchalantly, breaking the silence between us.
“Welcome to New York, miss,” the one with lighter, almost sandy-blond hair says with a thick Russian accent, though his face remains stoic.
“Thank you,” I murmur, surprised that he would say something.
The other remains silent, his strong, chiseled features as intimidating as his impressively muscled body. Sliding into the car, I pick a seat and watch as Pyotr and his two guards follow me in. Though perhaps not as refined and youthful as their employer, both men are very good-looking.
I don’t know which is which, since Pyotr introduced them both at the same time. Hopefully, I can find out at some point over the weekend. I make a note of the fact that Pyotr mentioned these men go with him everywhere. The Matron always seems to be surrounded by a contingent of well-muscled men as well.
I imagine that means the Veles are as strict about having bodyguards as my family. With Rosehill’s strict policy on the matter, it can be tricky to tell. But in New York, it sounds like Pyotr constantly has a security detail on him. I haven’t decided yet whether that makes me feel safer or not.
I catch glimpses of my betrothed out of the corner of my eye on our hour's drive. No one says anything, and I’m starting to wonder if the Veles might not spend most of their time in utter silence. Very different from my Italian family.
Then I step through the front door of the Brooklyn Heights brownstone house. It’s early evening, the setting sun casting long shadows across the pavement and stunning structure, giving it an eerie tint. As we walk up the front steps, I can hear the muffled tune of a lively piano number.
“Pyotr, what took you so long?” a teen girl demands in a playfully pouty voice as she abruptly ends her piano practice to come greet us. “Hi, I’m Mila,” she says as soon as her eyes land on me.
“She’s my younger and extremely annoying little sister,” Pyotr explains, smirking at the girl.
Sister?I didn’t even know he had a sibling. Somehow, learning that fact baffles me. I don’t understand how he could treat me the way he does and not sympathize with my brothers’ anger. His sister seems to be just a few years younger than us.
I wonder if Pyotr’s never thought about what he would do if someone laid a hand on her. Then again, my father didn’t care about what happened to me beyond what it might do to our family’s image. Perhaps Pyotr’s more like that. Maybe he can compartmentalize and turn off his emotions. Father is exceptional at that.
“What he means to say,” Mila clarifies, tossing her auburn curls over her shoulder, “is incredibly wonderful and favorite little sister.”
“Mila, you’re my only sister,” he counters flatly.
“Well, then, it must be true,” she says cockily, drawing a laugh from me.
“I’m Silvia.” I hold out my hand to her.
She ignores it completely, pulling me into a sisterly hug. “I’ve heard loads about you.”
“You have?” I ask in surprise. I can only imagine the terrible things Pyotr probably spouts about me to his sister.
“Well, of course! We’re going to be sisters-in-law someday. I want to know all about you.”
I’m shocked to find Pyotr’s sister open, friendly, and enjoyable–everything her brother is not. I don’t know how she sprung up from such a cold, heartless family. But I actually think I might learn to like her.
“Come on. Dinner’s ready,” she says, taking my hand and guiding me toward the back of the immense old house.
It’s narrow and seems to extend both up and down several stories from where I stand. Decorated with a beautiful mint-green runner, the dark cherry wood floor creates a perfect contrast. The place screams class with beautiful vases standing on pillar-like podiums and what looks like original Kandinsky Wassily paintings.
The Matron looks up from the paperwork in front of her as soon as we enter the eat-in kitchen. “You’re late,” she observes dryly in English. Her eyes focus on her son, placing the blame squarely on his shoulders.
“Traffic,” he says simply, shrugging.
It had been pretty bad getting through the city at the time we did.
