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“There was a drone! Pictures… It took pictures and—” She’s talking so fast I can barely understand her. Even though I have my phone pressed to my good ear, the high pitch of her voice makes it difficult to pick up every vowel and consonant.
“Slow down, Alina. Take a deep breath.”
“Luka said the pictures are already out there.”
“What pictures?”
Merrybell turns in her seat, casting me with a worried expression. “Um, Mr. Antonov?” She points at her computer screen. “You’re going to want to see this.”
I approach slowly, my eyes barely able to make sense of the images pulled up on Merrybell’s browser. It’s some sort of gossip website or some such bullshit. I normally don’t pay attention to sites like this. They try to drop my name and image every now and then for the sake of clicks, but what I see disturbs me to no end.
The picture is ofAlina. There’s only a few of them, but it’s clear they were taken from directly outside the penthouse windows. Suddenly Alina’s ramblings about a drone make sense.
She’s with Ben in the pictures. Fine. He’s her bodyguard. I’d expect him to be with her around the clock.
She has the flowers I sent to her earlier today. Also fine. Knowing I’m the one who sent them to her gives me an entirely different context to what I’m seeing.
She has a hand on Ben’s shoulder, smiling up at him with a glimmer in her eyes… Also fine, I try to tell myself. Maybe she’s just being friendly, though it certainlylooksflirtatious. A strange, jealous pang hits me in the chest. No matter how hard I try to ignore it, the flashy headline the site has splashed just above her pictures makes my jaw clench.
Pyotr Antonov’s Flirty New Bride: Trouble In Paradise?
I ball my fists up so hard my knuckles crack. This is a problem. Ahugeproblem.
One, some pervert has gone to great lengths to take pictures of my wife without her permission. Two, the same pervert has leaked said pictures onto the internet for all to see, likely making a hefty profit for themselves in the process. Three, this is going to reflect badly on not only Alina, but myself. And so soon after our run-in with Richard? I thought I could contain and control the whispers and gossip, but it seems someone is determined to undermine my efforts. Four, they’re framing this whole situation to pin Alina as some young and wild cheater. If word of this gets back to Russia…
“Pyotr?” Alina mumbles in my ear. “Pyotr, please come home. I need you.”
“I’m on my way.”
Chapter 21
Alina
Dinner is tense. To say we’re all a little on edge is an understatement.
Luka has made a rare appearance tonight, crawling out of his dungeon of a bedroom to help Pyotr sort through this mess we’re in. While I eat, they’re both busily typing away and making important phone calls.
“I want to know who your source is,” Pyotr snaps into his phone. He’s on a call with the gossip website’s main editor. Obviously, I’m only privy to his side of the conversation, but I get the sense things aren’t going too well. “What do you mean ‘anonymously provided’? Dammit, we’re talking about an invasion of privacy here. Harassment! Some asshole out there is stalking my fuckingwife.”
The way he says it takes my breath away. I don’t know why it gives me butterflies, but it does. Even though my nerves are fried at the moment, hearing Pyotr defend me so avidly makes my insides all gooey. Neither of us could have predicted something like this could happen, but now that he’s up to bat, Pyotr sounds like he’s ready to tear all of New York apart to bring the perpetrators to justice—all for me.
Luka has effectively turned the kitchen table into a workbench. The drone from earlier lies in bits and pieces, every screw, wire, and chip methodically placed out before him on a clean white towel. He labels as he goes, making sure nothing is out of place.
“What exactly are you looking for?” I ask him.
“Anything useful,” he mumbles under his breath. “Serial numbers and the like. I doubt it’s registered to the buyer, but you never know.”
I shift in my seat, poking at my pasta. I don’t really have an appetite, only having managed three or four bites since sitting down. “Do you think it’s Richard? He’s the only one who has any beef with me, warranted or otherwise.”
Luka shrugs. “It definitely seems likely, but we can’t just go around pointing fingers without proof. That’ll land us in hotter water.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Pyotr snaps. “Then put me on the line with someone in charge, dammit!” With a huff, he covers the mic of his phone with his free hand. “I made the editor cry.”
Luka snorts as he checks his watch. “It took you nine minutes? You’re losing your touch, big brother.”
“Zamolchi.”Shut up.
I set my fork down, ignoring the pressure that’s been pounding behind my eyes all evening. I hate this. My fingers itch to do something. Pyotr and Luka are working hard to fix this. Even Ben’s downstairs interviewing the front desk to see if they saw anyone suspicious. Surely, it’d be hard to miss someone with a drone control standing out front, right?
