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"Leave her alone."
"Leave her alone? What are you talking about? We're just here for a little visit. I wondered if there was an invitation somewhere along the line that I've missed?"
I make a fist. “If you hurt her, old man…”
“Mikhail,” my mother says gently. “You’re too distrusting, son. We’re just having dinner. Come see me this weekend, will you?”
I close my eyes briefly. I can see her now. The matriarch of our family, strong yet graceful, sitting upright with her impeccable posture. People call her a timeless beauty, but it’s her indomitable strength they truly admire. Her decisions are made with a blend of intuition, wisdom, and strategic foresight.
Now, though. Now that my father’s gone, I value her input, but final decisions rest with me.
“Of course we’ll have dinner,” I tell her. “Though I’m arranging for you to come to me. I have a surprise for you.”
I can practically feel Volkov’s tension.
“Oh, excellent,” she says with a smile. “I love surprises.”
I get a text from my assistant, Chantelle.
We have your information, sir.
I nod to Aleks to open the door.
“This weekend,” I promise her.
“What’s this weekend?” a higher-pitched, clear feminine voice sounds on the line. Polina.
I can hear the contempt in her voice when she addresses Volkov. “Oh. Who letyouin?”
I blow out a breath and speak loud enough for all to hear.
“My wedding,sestrichka.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Aria
I wakefrom what feels like the deepest sleep of my life with a start.
Where am I? I blink at shadowed furniture and drawn shades. Tatiana’s living room. I’m still fully clothed, my glasses askew. I must’ve fallen asleep on her couch. How strange. I never do that.
It was quite a day, though.
I push my glasses back on right and stumble to my feet. Last night, I came back to Tatiana’s and told her everything. She assured me we’d find another way, but I could tell she was nervous. I don’t blame her, really. I basically put a big ol’ target on her residence.
I knew I had to find another place to go since she’s at risk now that I’ve outed myself like an idiot to the Romanovs.
We had a drink together…and I guess I fell asleep.
Disoriented and bleary-eyed, I drag myself to the guest room, strip down to a tank and panties, then brush my teeth and splash water on my face before I turn and face-plant onto the bed.
I close my eyes, but memories of that truly embarrassing interaction with Mikhail Romanov plague me. I can still see his cold, calculating gaze. His heavy hands, resting casually on the desk, marked in ink. I can still smell the scent of pine and leather, unapologetically masculine. If I ever smell that scent again, I’ll forever see large, calloused, inked hands resting on a gleaming desk. Hands that have no doubt committed unspeakable crimes.
Then why can’t I stop thinking about them? Abouthim?
I can’t shake the feeling that Mikhail Romanov is a man that would stop at nothing to get what he wants.
And then the sharp, cold way he dismissed me like I was dirt on the bottom of his shoe. I told myself it was only business, but I’m still not truly immune to the biting sting of rejection. I guess that’s something you don’t outgrow.
