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“Tell him that I have his precious little girl tied in my bed. That I make her beg me for it every night.” I hold the pliers up in the air, and a drop of his blood splatters on the floor in a circle. “Tell him that she’s my good little whore.”
Bianchi swallows hard and nods. “Fine.”
I pat Bianchi on the shoulder and then motion toward Anton. “Get him out of here.”
Anton nods and waves the workers over to help him.
Rurik and I watch in silence as they leave, and as soon as the door shuts, he says. “I don’t think Bianchi will tell Zakhar any of that.”
I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter.” I pause. “I can’t give her back. Zakhar has told the Lanzzare too much already.”
“Do you intend to marry her?” Rurik looks at me with concern. “You don’t have to. Buy her a property and visit her when you’re bored with your future wife. Somewhere her father will never find her.”
I frown but don’t look at him. “That’s not something you would do,” I reply in a low voice.
“Because I love your sister.” He laughs, and his eyes light up. That only happens when he talks about Larissa. “But you don’t love Eden.”
My frown deepens, and I storm out of the warehouse, slamming the door shut behind me. My Mercedes roars to life and spits gravel out from under the tires as I put as much distance as possible between his statement and myself.
46
EDEN
I pacethe length of the living room, my fingers nervously tapping against my thigh. I can’t keep still. I glance over at the setting sun for what feels like the hundredth time, waiting for Nikolai to return home. He called from the road to tell Dominika he was coming home early. The staff is in a frantic panic as they hurry to finish their work. Nikolai doesn’t want to be disturbed, but I can’t wait.
Why was my father in that photo?
We didn’t talk about the photo last night. I was too scared to ask, and he was too angry to explain. My breath picks up as I think about what we did instead. I won’t let it happen again until he talks to me. I’m bracing myself for the icy stare Nikolai will give me when I demand to know the truth from him.
I fold my arms around my body and stop pacing. My thoughts are knotted into a tangle of chaos. My head spins with so many questions and doubts. I’m terrified to find out what’s true and what isn’t. My life is like a car wreck I can’t stop staring at, and it’s driving me crazy.
The elevator doors open, and Nikolai walks in. His black expression casts a shadow over the bright room. His jaw is set in a hard line, and his body language displays how tense he is. Hurried footsteps echo through the penthouse as the doors slam shut in the background.
Nikolai refuses to look at me. Should I have hidden too?
I take a step toward him, and his eyes sweep over me. I feel stupid wearing this blue silk dress as if it’s a shield against his rage. He’ll easily share his anger with me but remain tight-lipped. I watch Nikolai walk away, and he says nothing to me as he heads toward his office.
“Nikolai,” I call after him. “We need to talk.”
He pauses and stares at me. His scowl reminds me of a thunderstorm in motion, and the air seems to crackle around him. Goose bumps rise on my arms like I’ve touched something colder than ice.
I stare at his hands, checking for blood. There’s nothing there. There is no proof he did something horrible today.
“About what?”
“I found a photo when I was in your office. A picture of you as a boy.” I take a slow breath to calm myself. “And my father.”
Without responding, Nikolai walks into his office. A second later, he returns with that damning photograph clutched in his hand—the one with my father. He tosses it onto the coffee table and stares at me. I hold my breath and wait for him to say something.
“So,” his tone is calm, “do you believe it now?”
I nod as if it’s my choice, but I don’t want to … but I have to. I stare at the photograph of a young Nikolai standing beside my father.
“Yes,” I finally reply. “But I don’t understand …”
Nikolai hesitates, struggling for the right words. He’s not usually like this. His uncertainty heightens my anxiety.
“Sit,” he finally says, gesturing toward the couch.
