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Now that’s why I have the robe and slippers.
On the main floor, I take in my surroundings. The living room that already holds quite a few memories for me — where we took vows, my momentary life as a princess. Then later, lying over his lap while he gave me the first spanking of my life. Our wedding night consummation.
I wonder idly if his group demands consummation. If so, we have nothing to worry about. I know hardly anything about organized crime, but I do know the basics. Those within the group are bound to secrecy and loyalty. There’s a hierarchy, and my husband’s at the top. They are wealthy and own property, business, territory. From what Tatiana told me, they own all of The Cove.
But there are other basic tenets of mafia life I’ve already seen firsthand. They use intimidation and violence to get what they want. They break the law. Those in charge demand complete obedience and will not hesitate to enforce rules.
I find I’m following the sound of the music even as my heart beats faster and I have the strange feeling I shouldn’t be up and prowling about this house. I’m curious what Mikhail might do when he finds me. Or, more accurately…when I find him.
As I walk, I mentally catalog the layout. It’s gorgeous here with clean, vertical lines and a sense of tranquility. It’s a little surprising that for someone who values secrecy and privacy, his home has oversized windows that bring in natural light during the day and moonlight at night.
It's an oasis in here. Past the living room, an open doorway leads to a sitting room. There’s a doorway to a bathroom and another to what looks like the kitchen. I don’t explore, though, because I’m drawn to the music.
It’s a piano. Someone’s playing a piano. Since we’re the only ones here, it must be Mikhail.
He has a piano.
I want to leap for joy.
When I find it, I almost turn away. Will he be upset if I interrupt him now? He doesn’t have the friendliest personality, one might say.
But as I stand in the doorway, I’m haunted by the music. I close my eyes, trying to remember where I’ve heard it before. It’s…Russian, yes, I remember. While Tchaikovsky is likely the most famous of all Russian composers, there are so many lesser-known composers that were arguably even more skilled. At least in my opinion. I’ve always been one to root for the underdog.
Lobanov, Roslavets, Feinberg. Yes, I remember it now, Feinberg Piano Sonata No.12, Op. 48: II. Intermezzo…his piano sonatas are hauntingly beautiful. I took one course on composers years ago to satisfy a prerequisite for my degree. I never forget anything.
I lean against the doorframe, lost in the music. The rise and fall of the notes, expressive and hauntingly beautiful, makes my heart ache. I feel sad yet hopeful, energized yet calm. They say that the sound of a composition is impacted by the person playing it.
While I stand here, effectively intruding on his playing, I feel as if I’m dancing through myriad emotions. I’m walking on the beach, dancing in moonlight, the waves lapping on the shore…yet not alone. The melody, like an untamed cat, begs to be stroked before it pounces away.
I quickly take in the room — an elegant design of simplicity like the rest of his home. A baby grand piano sits as the focal point in the center of the room. The piano, a stunning matte white, lends a contemporary air.
Shades of white, gray, and black create an atmosphere of calm and tranquility. The walls feature a handful of framed prints I can’t see in the dimmed lighting. The floors are polished hardwood, the furniture sparse — a coffee table, a few end tables, a few elegant armchairs, and a simple white leather sofa.
The last notes of music fade.
“How long have you been there?”
He doesn’t turn around to look at me. I adjust the belt on my robe, viscerally aware that it’s an exercise in futility.
“Long…enough.” My words are quickly swallowed up in the expanse of the room. He doesn’t turn to look at me. I stare at his naked back. The tiger’s eyes stare back at me. A shiver of awareness runs down my spine at how strong he is, even bent over the piano, showcasing every inch of his chiseled back.
My pulse spikes when he turns to me, and his eyes meet mine.
“Come here, Aria.”
My heart leaps in my throat. I’m not sure why. He’s only asked me to come to him. I haven’t done anything that would make him want to punish me.
Have I?
I walk to him, powerless to disobey. Has he conditioned me, this quickly, that I leap to his command?
As I draw nearer, my body responds to the deep tone of his authoritative voice. The way his eyes watch my every move. Halfway to him, he rasps out a sharp command.
“Lose the robe.”
The robe is warm and comfy, but his gaze warms me more thoroughly.
I lose the robe. The gorgeous little garment likely costs more than my weekly salary, and yet it falls to the floor like so much wrapping. I step away from the warmth of the robe at my feet. He didn’t tell me to lose the slippers, so I walk toward him stark naked save for the fluffy white slippers.
