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Chapter 13
Paige
Today, the man with a scar on his face—who I learned is named Dmitri—wears a suit but no tie as he waits at the bottom of the staircase for me and Natasha to descend. Dmitri has combed his bangs over his scar. It’s not much, but enough to make him look less terrifying. He only wears his hair combed back when he wants to look threatening, I guess.
A silent guard walks behind us while Dmitri and Natasha have a conversation. About what, I don’t know. They rarely speak English in front of me, and I don’t know Russian.
We enter a huge white and gold room. Swirls of gold molding decorate the walls like a tiered cake, and a row of arched windows look out onto a perfectly green lawn. My steps slow to a stop, and I can’t take my eyes off the painting above my head of angels playing in a heavenly sky.
“It is a replica of the ballroom at the Catherine Palace outside of St. Petersburg. Have you been?” asks Dmitri.
It’s impossible to form words as I take in the opulent beauty of the room. I’ve seen pictures of the palaces in books around my father’s house. It’s what piqued my interest in photography, but even viewing a copy in reality is just breathtaking.
“A replica?” I ask breathlessly.
“Very close to the original. You must ask Andrei to take you,” he continues. “It was a summer residence of the Tsars. I went there as a boy to dance with the Kirov Ballet. That is where I met Andrei.”
“Andrei was a dancer?” I caught myself. I’m not supposed to be in awe of this man. Andrei is holding me against my will and forcing me to marry him. And his two goons are keeping a close eye on me.
Natasha gives Dmitri a sharp look that makes him smirk. “Why don’t you have a seat, Paige …” She pauses.
“Natasha wants to be respectful,” Dmitri explains. “She needs to know what your patronymic is. Your father’s name, please.”
“Gerald,” I say quietly.
“Khorosho,” Natasha says. “Sit, Paige Geraldovna.” She pats the chair between her and Dmitri, then lights a cigarette. “They’re about to bring in the dresses.”
“Have you ever thought of marrying, Natasha?” Dmitri grins slyly at her and then at his phone.
Natasha stiffens and looks straight ahead. “My aunt had seven children with her husband. She was counting the days until all her children left home so that my uncle would drop dead of food poisoning.”
“Convenient.” Dmitri looks up from his phone. “And did he?”
“Of course he did, silly man.”
“Her lover must have poisoned him and given her an alibi.”
“Sometimes it’s easier to say no, Dima.” Natasha takes a pull on her long dark cigarette. “Painless. Like tearing off a bandage or slitting a throat. Whatever it is, just finish quickly. But that’s never been a problem for you, has it?”
Suddenly, they’re silent as they remember I’m sitting right there, listening, and gripping the end of my chair so hard my knuckles turn white.
“This one,” Natasha adds quickly. “She’s a lucky girl.”
They both murmur in agreement, but it’s not convincing. I’m getting the fuck out of here today.
The first of the racks is pushed into the room. Stuffed with enormous white dresses, it looks like a cloud on wheels. The dressmaker enters with another rack. She’s an older woman with pink cheeks and white sneakers. She’s no criminal. I run toward the rack and whisper,
“Call the police.”
She stares into my eyes blankly.
“Cops? Law Enforcement? NCIS?”
She smiles and says something in Russian as Natasha saunters over.
“She says you are a pretty bride.” Natasha laughs as I glare at her. “Most of the household staff only speak Russian. They won’t risk going back to the old country by betraying Andrei Vasilyevich. Not for you.”
Returning to my seat, I ask, “Was Andrei born in Russia?”
