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Chapter 18
Paige
Stefan greets us at the door. He smiles widely, tall and slim, with bleached highlights in his dark hair. He smiles at Emma, pleased to see her, and then very politely toward me.
“Please come in,” he says, sweeping his hand across the threshold. “I will see if my grandmama is ready.”
The house isn’t what I expected. It’s very modern, with wide glass windows that show off the surrounding woods and natural oak walls that have never been touched with paint. I admire a celadon vase on a pedestal, carefully keeping my hands at my sides until I’m shown a place to sit down.
Zhanna Nikolaeva enters through two doors that allow sunlight into the subdued living room, wearing a raw silk pantsuit in pearl gray. Two trained greyhounds follow closely behind. Their coats gleam as if polished, and their steps are silent across the marble floor. Her gray hair is parted to the side over her pale forehead. And her violet eyes are shadowed by smoky lids and carefully applied lashes.
She isn’t as old as I first thought. She must have been very beautiful once.
A face that could launch a thousand wars.
She moves toward me at a measured, regal pace, and Stefan steps quickly toward her, whispering in a low voice. Zhanna raises her hand, and he immediately stops talking.
“It’s all right, Styopa, dear. I feel much better today.” She lets her hand drop again, and I notice that her pale fingers are tipped with silver polish. “Go and entertain your lovely friend.”
Emma immediately rises and follows Stefan out of the room. I hear soft laughter hurrying down the hall. The dogs move in unison toward me and sniff curiously at my shoes before trotting disdainfully away, returning to their owner’s side.
Zhanna watches me as if from a great distance, like she did at the funeral. I’m still a curiosity to her. A dolled-up Cinderella who snared herself a Bratva prince. She waves her hand in a gesture that indicates I should hurry up and speak before I too am dismissed.
Her eyes drift to my arm, where the scars of Talia’s nails from that night so many months ago have finally started healing.
“How did you get those marks?” she asks, her voice harder than before.
“Talia Nikitin.” I confess. “She tried to hurt me at a dinner.”
“And Andrei has never touched you like this?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“It appears that he is less like Vasily than we all thought.” Zhanna murmurs, but I don’t know if she intends those words to be for me or for herself.
“I don’t know much about being a wife to a husband in the Bratva,” I blurt out clumsily.
Her gaze rests on the small diamond pendant around my neck, and she frowns ever so slightly. “Is that a gift from your husband?”
My hand rests on it, and I nod.
“Is it real?” she asks.
I nod again. “I’m pretty sure all the jewelry he has given me is real.”
“Foolish girl.” She smiles thinly. “All your jewelry should be appraised and then duplicated. Youneverwear the originals. I will give you the name of a shop. Very discreet. They will pay for them, and your husband will never know. Never let your husband pick your jewelry.”
My eyes widen as if she’s talking crazy. “Then how do I ask for it?”
She tsks like I’m a child. “You admire a piece or find a picture of something you like in an auction catalog. Place the page on his desk. He will buy it for you. Don’t let him give you anything you can’t sell.”
A chill descends my spine at her words. She’s not telling me how to be a wife.
She’s telling me how to survive.
My voice lowers as I hold my knees tightly together. “I need to talk to someone, perhaps an accountant.”
“A fund manager.” Smiling, she corrects me. “Do not trust anyone your husband uses foryourfinances. I will give you a name, Paige Geraldovna. I’m glad you came to me. A woman who marries for wealth …”
