by Lana Sky
“Then give me the ones that you heard the most.” His tone is less mocking this time. Something odd taints his expression and I struggle to name it. Actual interest? “Think.” He comes up behind me to hiss the word directly into my ear. “Think hard, Little One. I suggest you hold my attention for as long as you have it.”
My body resonates with the ominous suggestion, and I return the pen to the page. Three names spring to mind and I scribble them hastily, one after the other. When I hold them out to Mischa, I expect him to shove the book back in my face with a growled command. More!
But his eyes spark with interest as he fingers one name in particular. “Son of a bitch…” His gaze flicks up, burning through mine. “Him. How do you know him?”
I scan the letters partially obscured by his pointing thumb. Kostas. My stomach tightens ominously. That name. It’s one of the few I can trace back to a clear memory. Several memories. He was one of the few men Robert made me pleasure for him. With my mouth. My hands. They tremble as the coarse images linger on my conscience.
Mischa says something else, snapping his fingers when I don’t answer. Or at least it appears he does. I hear nothing. Just deep, masculine groans smothered on the air, paired with the burning humiliation of being used.
“Hey—”
I violently cringe from the hand that brushes my cheek. Beneath me, the chair slides against the wood, driven by the sudden shift in my weight. My eyes blink rapidly, but I’m not in Robert’s room. And the man before me, he’s…
Terrifying. I’ve never seen that kind of rage reflected on the face of a human being. It’s raw. Animalistic.
It’s…not directed at me.
“No,” he snarls, gritting the word between his teeth. Deliberately, his hand comes for me again, cupping the side of my throat. “You don’t flinch from me.” Each finger tenses against my windpipe, but not to choke for once. To feel. To reinforce his presence. You don’t flinch.
And I don’t. Robert relished making me squirm. He chuckled whenever I jumped at the mercy of his fingertips. But I’d give anything to emulate that reaction now. Anything.
When Mischa captures my chin in his palm, I don’t recoil. I shiver. It’s a subtle difference that I feel down to the very nerves running beneath my skin. Fear is one thing. Anticipation is something different entirely. It’s harder to stomach. Harder to reconcile with the rules I’ve lived by for so long.
“Tell me,” he commands, urging me to face him. “What… Did he hurt you?”
He didn’t mean to phrase the question so heatedly. His eyes narrow, directing that anger inward for a rare split second.
But he doesn’t move, and his fingers never withdraw.
“He…he met with Robert regularly for a short time,” I admit, barely recognizing the sound of my own voice.
Mischa blinks, cold and collected once again. “How regularly?”
“Weekly at some points,” I admit. “Every few months at others. It changed.”
“That son of a bitch.” He turns away from me, and I’m ignored in favor of the man whose face I can still clearly recall.
Black eyes. Dark curls. Younger than most. He smelled like cigar smoke and thick cologne I’d still taste on my tongue for weeks. Before the worst of the memories can descend, however, movement catches the corner of my eye. Mischa, reaching into his pocket. For his knife? No, a cell phone, I realize as my heart creeps to my throat. He dials a number quickly and brings it to his ear.
“This is Stepanov,” he says into the receiver. “I’m calling a fucking meeting. Pecavi. Midnight. Bring them all.” He hangs up, turning his attention back to me. “You want to earn another concession from me, Little One?” he wonders. But there is no mistake: it’s not a question, and he doesn’t offer kindness. “Then I’m going to need you to put that memory of yours to good fucking use. Or,” he adds, sweeping his gaze along my body, “I’ll utilize your pretty head in another way. Understood?”
I can only nod.
CHAPTER 18
“Y ou claimed your husband never mentioned the Mafiya around you,” Mischa questions as we advance through the corridor.
My steps are hesitant in his wake. I know enough of him to suspect that he doesn’t divulge information like this willingly. No, his sudden talkativeness hides a more nefarious purpose: the first round of a brand-new game.
Do I want to play?
It’s not like I have a choice.
“No,” I admit cautiously. “He didn’t.”
“Should I enlighten you?”
I swallow hard, weighing the implications of such a suggestion. Does the twisted reason for my fate really matter?
“Ten families,” he explains, making the decision for me, “each one with more wealth and power than your fucking Winthorps. Together, we are united, under the guidance of one leader. In theory…”
A word springs to mind: Pakhan. Him?
“Twenty-four years ago, your husband’s family started a war, Little One. I plan to end it, soon. Once and for all.” His hands flex menacingly at his sides, the knuckles cracking in unison. “So do not make the mistake of assuming that, because you aren’t dead now, I’ve changed my mind. In fact, I want you to tell me something.”
“W-what?” I gather up the nerve to ask after seconds have passed, sensing that’s what he wants: me to take the bait.
He continues past the door to his room and stops near the one beside it instead, heightening the foreboding tension building in my belly. “Think about how you want to die,” Mischa commands as he opens the door.
I falter in the hall as my blood runs cold at the grim suggestion. He isn’t joking.
Rather than demand an answer now, my murderer snatches my wrist and drags me over the threshold of the newer room. He switches a nearby light on, and with my thoughts stalled by terror, he pulls me in close, lowering his mouth near my ear. “So tell me, Ellen Winthorp. Strangulation? No…” He runs the fingers of his free hand along my tender throat and frowns. “You’d like that.”
Would I? My lungs refuse to expand, and the sensation is anything but pleasurable. He could kill me like this easily: smothering my soul through nearness alone.
“What about a knife?” He sweeps his gaze along my chest as if hunting for the right place to strike. Eventually, his eyes settle over my rib cage and narrow thoughtfully. “I could make it slow, Little One.”
His hand falls to his hip, and desperation makes my lips spring apart.
“G-gun,” I rasp, naming Robert’s preferred weapon. Whenever my husband eventually did tire of me, at least I knew for certain his method of choice. He’d dispose of me the same way he dispatched the animals he hunted: one bullet right between the eyes. Simple and clean, he’d say.
Mischa, however, frowns at the suggestion. “Shooting you.” He shrugs as if considering it. Then he shakes his head and dips his fingers into his pocket, retrieving the hidden blade. “You aren’t afraid of guns, Little One,” he deduces musingly. “I’ve seen it. You aren’t afraid of my hands, either. No…but the knife—” He raises the blade, brandishing it in the orange glow of the lamp. “This frightens you. Why?”
Hypnotized by the gleaming metal’s edge, I can’t answer him. Memories flash across my psyche too quickly to suppress: pain, blood, so much blood.
“You Winthorps and your knives.” He brings the blade closer, positioning it toward my throat, and chuckles when I flinch. “This way.” Nodding to himself, he steps back, returning the blade to his pocket. “Sit.”
He gestures to the bed in the center of the room.
I sit on the edge of the mattress, and he stands over me without revealing a hint of what he has planned. I can’t help the hesitant way my eyes trace the waistband of his pants. His hands remain open at his sides, but tension sizzles off him, prickling my skin.
“Are you afraid?” he wonders.
Am I? After a second’s hesitation, I nod.
“You should be,” he agrees, raking a hand along his scal
p. “But…you aren’t. Don’t try to deny it. I’ve smelled fear on you before.” His nostrils flare as if chasing that scent. Disappointed, he shrugs in disgust. “No. You are waiting. Watching. You still think you can survive.”
“I don’t.” Once more, I question his assertions. The cunning woman he described sounds nothing like the Ellen Winthorp I know. “I-I—”
“I suppose I could threaten to kill you now, Little One.” He pauses, letting the prospect linger while stoking my anxiety like flames. “But I might as well use you while I can. You said your husband never taught you how to gamble.” His gaze roves over me, and with nothing to disguise my body’s reaction, parts of me tighten. Stiffen. Heat. “I will make you a wager. Apart from your life, think of something you want from me.”
“Huh?” I blink in confusion, unable to disguise the reaction before he notices. Something I want? Mercy.
As if aware of the desire, he chuckles again. “I know what I want from you. Fail me tonight and it’s mine.”
“And if I don’t fail?” I’m not sure where the challenge came from. Why I even care. Men like him and Robert play their games with only one winner in mind.
Rather than reinforce that reality out loud, Mischa tilts his mouth in a wicked angle. “I’ll humor you, Little One.”
As he turns his back to me, I’m painfully aware that we’re not in his room, but a new domain. This one is smaller, the furniture less ornate, the bed sheets a bloody shade of red. Rather than a dresser, there’s a wardrobe tucked into the corner, which Mischa approaches. Beyond his shoulder, I only make out a swatch of colored fabric before he turns and tosses something onto the bed beside me.
“Put it on.”
My fingers obediently clench the burgundy fabric. It’s a dress. Thin. Small. Something sets it apart from the other skimpy items he gave me before though; it’s finely tailored, comparable to what Briar would wear. This belonged to someone…
“Now,” Mischa snaps.
Suppressing my questions, I draw the gown over my head, surprised by the modest length and plunging neckline.
“Forget Robert Winthorp,” he warns. He runs his fingers through my hair, flicking the strands forward to cover most of my face. “Tonight, you are mine.” He captures my chin in his grip and roughly runs his thumb over the healing wounds on my left cheek. Then he withdraws something from his pocket. Flat. Square. A bandage large enough to cover the worst of the cuts. Satisfied, he draws back, observing me from afar.
“Get some of that sleep you crave, Little One,” he commands, heading for the door. “Tonight, you better be willing to place your bets.”
L eft alone in the strange room, I notice nothing worth examining—at first. It’s slightly smaller than his, with an adjacent bathroom composed of white marble instead of black. The bedsheets feel stiff, unslept in. There are few baubles or mementos on the nightstands and the lone vanity, just like in his room.
The wardrobe is another matter, however. The moment I open the doors, a scent rushes out to greet me. Sweet. Soft. Feminine. It lingers in every piece of clothing I find. Most are elegant gowns like the one Mischa picked for me, but tucked behind them, I find simpler garments. A blouse. A skirt. The style is older than the bright fashions Briar prefers, more modest. They’re far from what Robert would choose for me, as well.
But Mischa? Was his woman this modest creature who preferred emerald silk and soft tweed?
I try to picture her, someone who could pique his interest in ways other than a hateful fuck. Only the haziest image comes to mind. Brown eyes, maybe? Someone taller, perhaps. The doomed Anna-Natalia?
Removing the clothing in question reveals no answers. I don’t find her when I carefully shed my red dress in favor of one from the wardrobe. It fits me, which is the first surprise. The second is how lovingly it’s been preserved. No one has worn them in a very long time, yet the fabric maintains its shape.
What are you doing, Ellen?
My subconscious haunts me as I approach the vanity. I almost don’t recognize the person I find looking back. Her eyes aren’t as empty as I’m used to. Something lurks there. Pain? Or a more dangerous, obscure emotion that would never take root in my husband’s domain?
Curiosity.
Mischa’s woman doesn’t reveal herself, even in the drawers or the neat arrangement of items placed before the round mirror. Pink lipstick. A small vial of perfume. A silver brush. My fingers settle over each item individually, seeking any clue of their previous owner. I don’t find a ghost. Just a strange, impulsive need to drag the brush through my tangled hair and swipe my lips with the lipstick. The perfume is the most dangerous item of all to disturb. I know that even before I spray a hint of it against my wrist, inhaling the feminine scent.
Who was this ghost who smelled of roses?
Trembling with apprehension, I shed the clothing and return it to the wardrobe. Then I redress myself in the red slip, climb onto the bed and wait. Sleep should be a tempting offer without Mischa there to haunt my every moment, but my eyes refuse to close. My heart refuses to still.
Instead, I breathe in shallowly and count the seconds as they pass. I wait, lingering in my monster’s shadow. This room disguises his scent too well and I’m left inhaling a stranger—two of them. One is bloodied and broken, the wife of a distant villain. The other is an enigma, lingering in the home of an even worse creature.
And she didn’t even bother to leave her secrets behind.
T he moment my eyes finally begin to drift shut, Mischa comes for me. I startle to awareness and find him in the doorway, gesturing with a silent wave of his hand for me to follow.
Together, we return to the entryway of the manor, and I sense a drastic change in the atmosphere. Unease. It lingers as he marches through an archway opposite the one toward the dining room. Noises echo, betraying a flurry of unseen activity. Voices. Chaos. Suddenly, a man appears at the end of the hallway.
“There you are.” Vanya approaches, wearing a black collared shirt and pants instead of the gray fatigues. He nods once when he sees me before turning his attention to Mischa. He eyes his leader warily, lowering his voice. “Are you sure about this? On such short notice?”
He’s anxious, but if Mischa feels the same his posture reveals nothing. He’s stoic, his jaw set in a grim line of determination.
“I am done playing the role of mediator,” he says. “It’s time we fucking fight for what we want. Those who refuse to fall in line can grapple with the consequences.”
“You know most of them will follow you,” Vanya agrees. “But Sergei—”
“I can handle him,” Mischa interjects. “But can you? You made your choice to stay by my side, not his. Tell me now if you regret it?”
Vanya frowns, eyeing something far beyond this conversation only he can see. Finally, he shakes his head. “No.”
“Good.” Mischa squares his shoulders, continuing down the hall.
He wants to say more, I can tell. Something personal. Whatever it is, the words never leave his throat, and Vanya continues in the opposite direction.
“You’re losing already, Little One,” Mischa warns. He snatches my wrist, drawing me to his side. “You are mine, remember?”
It’s one role I don’t know how to emulate, ironically. Robert thought of me as his trophy. His wife. His prize. Mischa seems to expect a certain demeanor. Maybe the answer lurks in the heated way he uttered those words. You are mine.
But how does one display the ownership of a beast? It’s a trick question. Monsters never possess their victims. They rip them apart. Devour. Destroy. Then they lord over the mangled pieces.
He already has me hanging together by a thread. I’m not prideful enough to deny it. I can sense my soul splintering around me with every passing second that his heat leeches into my skin.
There was a reason Robert never gambled. “Only fools with nothing worth having risk it all,” he smugly claimed.
He was the son of a wealthy businessman with the world at h
is fingertips, after all. What use did he have for something as elusive as hope and luck?
I’m not even half as secure as he is, yet I still can’t make the leap. So I eye the floor of the hallway and count the steps we take until Mischa finally pulls me to a stop. We’re in a larger room I don’t recognize. A polished floor stretches beneath a vaulted ceiling with scattered fixtures casting intermittent light. A meeting room?
There’s a table in the center, like the makeshift one at the safe house where Boris haggled for me. More men fill this room, however. At least ten are seated around the table, with more lurking behind them, flooding nearly every available space. At a glance, the group appears homogenous, but on a second appraisal, it’s easy to see the subtle divides that separate some groups from the others. Of the ten men seated, each one seems to command a section of the room wherein those gathered are facing him. Some are wearing suits. Others are wearing casual fatigues like Mischa. One man is even lounging in a simple tee shirt and jeans, smirking at those around him.
As Mischa approaches the remaining chair, a hush falls. Behind us, numerous footsteps echo in unison. His men, spearheaded by Vanya.
“So, Stepanov,” one of the men says, seizing the attention as Mischa sits. He’s older, his eyes piercing and narrowed. He glances Mischa over with barely concealed disgust, but there’s respect in how he inclines his head toward him, even as he spits his words out. “You called us here. For what? To join in your insane fucking plan—”
“To talk,” Mischa says, effortlessly cutting over him though he never raises his voice.
I find myself biting my lower lip in recognition of one tool I’ve only ever seen Winthorp men possess so freely: power.
It’s in the way he holds his head. How his shoulders convey a fearless grace. He’s not the oldest man here, or the biggest, or even the handsomest. But no one can keep their eyes off him for very long.
“To talk?” another man wonders, his accent thick and indiscernible. “Or to beg for help in your fucking war with Winthorp—”