His Queen of Clubs

by Rose, Renee

  My stomach lurches and I’m suddenly nauseous. I surge to my feet and square my shoulders, throwing the rest of my water back in my throat. “Where’s my toothbrush?” I demand like the spoiled brat he seems to think I am.

  I fully expect him to tell me to go fuck myself, but he reaches in his satchel and produces it—the toothbrush and travel toothpaste in a small ziplock bag. Still taking care of me.

  I shouldn’t like it. Shouldn’t want any sort of attention from the man who’s captured me and wants to force me to marry him.

  I grab the bag out of his hand and march away to the bathroom, working hard to steady my breath and my nerves.

  He won’t win this game. Sooner or later I will escape. My brothers will find me.

  And he’ll be the one on his knees begging for mercy.

  Chapter 8

  Alessia

  We land the following afternoon after a sixteen hour flight. I spent the morning playing cards with Mika and ignoring Vlad.

  I’m on edge as we get off the plane and a swarm of tattooed men in suits and guns flank us and lead us to a limo.

  If Vlad seemed like a one-man show back in the U.S., it’s clear he’s plenty connected on his home turf. I look out the tinted window, my hands clammy and my stomach in knots.

  “It’s normal for a bride to be nervous on her wedding day,” Vlad observes and I shoot him my best death stare.

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  Mika goes still, head bent over his tablet, as always, but clearly listening. Is he worried for my well-being now that we’ve made friends? I wonder if I can’t convince him to help me somehow.

  Then again, I’m not sure I’m willing to put him in the position of betraying the only parent figure he has in the world right now.

  Vlad just chuckles, though. He doesn’t seem to have a temper; at least not with me.

  The limo pulls up in front of a church and the stone sitting in my stomach sinks even lower. We are actually doing this.

  “You think you’re going to get a priest to perform a wedding to a bride in a pink halter dress?” I ask. I’m so sick of this dress right now, I’d like to put it through a shredder. And Vlad hasn’t given me my freaking panties back, either.

  Vlad smirks. “I have a white dress for you. And a woman to help you dress. All you have to do is walk down the aisle.”

  I narrow my eyes. “I hate you.”

  “As it should be between husband and wife.” He climbs out of the car and offers me a hand. I shake my head, but don’t bother commenting on his piss-poor view of love, women or marriage. My dress rides up as I scoot out and his blue eyes darken, following the hem up my thigh. I shake off his hand and yank the dress down.

  The church is empty. At least I won’t be getting married in front of a crowd of people I don’t know. Vlad deposits me in a small room where an old lady waits. She bustles over to me, speaking in Russian.

  “Five minutes,” Vlad tells me, then says something to the old woman in Russian. As he leaves, he points a threatening finger at me. “Try to escape and she’ll be punished for it.” He tips his head at the old woman.

  My mouth drops open, heart beating faster.

  It’s a bluff, I tell myself as he shuts the door. He wouldn’t hurt an old woman any more than he would hurt me. Or Mika. It’s just that he has my number now. He’s figured out I have compassion for the people around me and he’s manipulating me with it.

  Still, I’m reluctant to call his bluff. I definitely don’t want an old woman facing his wrath.

  The woman wears a dour expression and chatters at me in Russian, holding up a white bustier and panties and pushing me into the restroom.

  Deducing she wants me to put on my undergarments in private, I go into the stall and shuck the halter dress. I showered in the tiny jet bathroom this morning, but it feels glorious to put on clean underclothing. The bustier and panties fit perfectly. How did Vlad know? He didn’t even have a bra to go off of.

  I come out of the bathroom. The old woman holds up a wedding dress. It's not bad as far as wedding dresses go. Definitely could be worse. It's strapless with a simple satin bodice. A satin band trims the top and makes a flat bow in the back. The dress is fitted through the waist and hips and flares out at the ankles, the hem falling higher in front than in back.

  My elderly attendant thrusts a cascading bouquet of pale pink roses in my hands, then squats down at my feet, arranging several shoeboxes beside her. She says something in Russian and holds up a pair of silver strappy sandals.

  I wrinkle my nose. “I don't love them, if that's what you're asking.”

  She bobs her head and says something else, unboxing a simple pair of white satin pumps.

  I look at the third box. “What else do you have there?”

  She opens it. Strappy white satin sandals.

  I point to the pumps. “Probably those. Let's try them.”

  She gets the gist and helps me into the shoes. They're fine. Nothing special but they fit. As soon as they're on, she hustles me out the door to the chapel.

  The knot in my stomach moves up to my solar plexus, making it hard to breathe. I'm sweaty and freezing at once. Just a few days ago I was at my brothers’ double wedding lamenting I'd never have a love match like them. Even so I never dreamed my wedding would be like this. That I would be a captive bride in a foreign country.

  This doesn’t matter. It isn’t real.

  So I keep telling myself, but the sentimental part of me doesn’t believe it. This is a wedding. A church wedding in front of God and a Russian Orthodox priest, who can’t be that different from a Catholic priest.

  There’s no one playing Here Comes the Bride for me to walk down the aisle. There’s no music at all. No guests, either, unless you count Mika and Vlad’s horde of security guys.

  “What, no tux?” I ask when he meets me at the rear of the church. He ignores me, taking my elbow instead of offering his. “Where’s my headpiece? Seriously, I’m not getting married without a tiara. I thought I was your printsessa or whatever.”

  Vlad’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t look at me. “You don’t need tiara, you already have shiny halo.” His accent’s grown thicker since we arrived in Russia.

  I snort.

  I can’t believe I’m walking down the aisle joking with my captor-slash-groom.

  He stops in front of the priest, who waves the sign of the cross in front of us and chants in Russian.

  There’s some talking. Some more talking.

  Then, apparently the vows. The priest looks at me.

  “Nyet,” I say firmly.

  The priest ignores me and goes on with the ceremony. At least I think that’s what happens, but I can’t be sure since the whole thing is in Russian.

  As I stand there, trembling beside the man who is apparently marrying me, it strikes me just how screwed I really am. Not speaking the language, being in a foreign country is a huge disadvantage. Especially considering how connected Vlad appears to be.

  The priest says something else and Vlad cups the back of my head and pulls me in for a quick peck on the lips. It all happens so fast I don’t have a chance to fight it, and then it’s over.

  Fuck.

  I’m married.

  I hiccup on a sob.

  Vlad scoops me into his arms and carries me out of the church as I drag in stuttered breaths. No tears come. Just crazy, heaving, erratic sobs. The kind that sound like a drowning woman gasping for air.

  Mika walks along beside us, throwing worried glances up at me. Vlad walks swiftly to the limo. One of his men opens the door for him. Instead of dropping me inside, he sits on the seat and pivots his legs in, keeping me in his arms.

  Mika slides in across from us, his brows down, head low.

  Vlad barks something in Russian to the driver and the limo leaves as I continue to struggle with my breath. My fake groom holds me on his lap and strokes my bare arms with a light, feathery touch. His brows are down, same as Mika’s, and he doesn’t look at
me.

  I stare out the window at the landscape flying by, hiccupping, feeling the last bit of my hope draining away.

  * * *

  Vlad

  I want to comfort my bride, but there’s nothing to say. I’m the cause of her distress and what’s done is done.

  Still, it bothers me more than I care to admit to feel her shaking in my arms. To see her come undone.

  “Will you let her go?” Mika mutters in Russian so quietly I barely hear it. He doesn’t look at me when he asks.

  “Yes. Eventually,” I tell him, also in Russian.

  He flicks his wary gaze at me and gives a single nod before looking out the window.

  “I won’t hurt her, and I won’t force sex.” It’s a fucking awkward conversation to have with a twelve-year-old, but I feel like I have to tell him. I don’t know what the kid’s seen. His mother was a whore. I don’t know how Aleksi or other johns treated her. Mika may be scarred from things that were done to her.

  Worse, he might be deadened to the concept of consent, of how a woman should be treated. And I’m providing a shit example. So I need him to know this.

  He doesn’t answer, which is fine. I look at him until he glances back up at me.

  “Never force a woman to have sex, Mika. It’s wrong.”

  Uncertainty and pain flash in his eyes, and I’m glad I persisted. He is scarred.

  “Do you agree?” I press.

  He nods quickly. “Da.”

  “Good.” I release him from my gaze. I’m still stroking Alessia’s arms. She’s calmed down now, although I still detect a tremor in her limbs.

  “You will like my place,” I say in English, to both of them. “It’s quite comfortable.”

  Neither one of them answer.

  The limo pulls up at my sprawling country home on the bank of the Volga river at sunset. Rosy-hued clouds make a stunning backdrop for the stately mansion.

  It’s strange to be back. I’ve been away for thirteen months now. Banished to America because a conniving woman tricked me into her bed.

  The servants know I’m coming. My housekeeper, Zoya—the servant who attended Alessia at the church—stands outside with her husband Yegor. My men line up outside to greet us, as well.

  The driver opens my door and I lift Alessia out and onto her feet and follow her out. Mika climbs out and takes it all in, nothing showing on his expression.

  “It’s nice,” Alessia concedes, her gaze traveling over my enormous mansion and the gated grounds surrounding it. She points in the direction of the thicket of trees. “Is that the river?”

  “Da.” I smile. She could so easily be a bitch right now. Decide to hate everything, show me only her ire. But she doesn’t. Her first words are “it’s nice.”

  She’s nice.

  So much sweeter than I imagined.

  Guilt at stealing her from her life wars equally with the desire to keep her—permanently.

  I reward her sweetness with the courtesy I didn’t extend at the church. “Alessia, you already met Zoya, my housekeeper. She doesn’t speak English, but she will see to all your needs. I will get you a translator until you learn from your Rosetta Stone.”

  Alessia sticks a hand out and Zoya reluctantly takes it and bows over it.

  “Her husband, Yegor. He’s the caretaker.”

  Yegor bows.

  In Russian, I introduce Mika to my staff. I already advised them about my prisoner, but I forgot to mention my new ward.

  Zoya glowers at him, like she’s afraid he’s going to mess up my house, but of course, she says nothing.

  “Come, both of you. I’ll give you a tour.” I show them around the house. I’ve already given instructions to my staff to remove any access to phones or internet and my men will surround all exits to keep Alessia from leaving. This way, she can be free to move about the mansion.

  “This will be your room, Mika.” I open the door to one of the guest suites.

  He goes over and sits on the bed, giving it a little bounce. Then he gazes at me, his blue-grey eyes searching. “For how long?”

  I shrug. “We’ll see.” I’m not one to make plans or promises. I don’t know how this thing with Alessia will play out. Or if I will even want to stay in Russia. I don’t particularly even want to return to my former life here.

  It was the wrong thing to say, though.

  Alessia glares at me, lips tightening.

  I frown back at her, but then sigh and try to make it right.

  “You can stay here as long as you like, Mika. It’s your home.”

  Apparently it still wasn’t the right response because Alessia shakes her head at me.

  I give her the “what?” gesture and she shakes it harder.

  I toss Mika the remote to the television in his room. “Feel free. Or go explore. As you like.” I wave my hand.

  Outside the room, Alessia pulls me down the hall away from the room, but lays into me immediately. “Mika needs stability. You don’t tell him he’s welcome to stay. He’s not a houseguest. You tell him he’ll be with you, whether it’s here or elsewhere. That he’s yours and you’re going to look after him.” Now she digs in her heels and pulls us to a stop. “You are going to look after him, aren’t you?”

  I sigh.

  This was not a commitment I was prepared to make. The boy became my responsibility by default, not because I chose it.

  “Listen, I wasn’t looking to become a father. You know how unfit I am. I’ve involved the boy in serious crimes. Kept him from a proper education.”

  “He just needs someone to care about him. He’s looking to bond. Until you make sure he knows you’re committed, he’s hardly got a shot at becoming a decent human being.”

  I curse in Russian and run my fingers through my hair. “Your opinion is noted,” I grumble. “Now come on, bride. it’s time to call in for your dowry.”

  * * *

  Alessia

  My dowry.

  “Are you calling my brother?” I ask as Vlad leads me into a master suite.

  “Da.” He retrieves a tablet from the leather satchel he always has with him.

  “Which one?”

  “I’m calling Junior. Is he not the head of the Family?”

  I lift one shoulder. “Yes and no. Officially, yes. But Nico holds the financial power.”

  “Yes, Nico. He runs the Bellissimo.”

  Flutters fly in my belly. Just talking about my brothers makes them seem closer. More able to find me and rescue me. “Can I talk to them?”

  “If you’re good. I will put you on video so they can see you are well. But no funny business.” He points a stern finger at me.

  I look down at the wedding gown. They will see me on my wedding day. My eyes sting. Married to a criminal. That part was expected, I just thought it would be one of their choosing.

  Vlad leans against a dresser and uses his phone, then powers up the tablet.

  A moment later the tablet starts ringing. Vlad smirks as he slides his finger across the screen.

  “Junior. Remember me?”

  “Vladimir.” I hear the darkness in Junior’s voice. The threat.

  “I have something of yours. Someone, actually.”

  Junior curses in Italian. In the background I hear my other brothers’ voices.

  “If anything happens to Alessia, I’ll rip your spine out. Where is she?” Junior’s voice booms from the tablet.

  I scramble over to Vlad’s side to see. I half expect him to keep me from it, but he doesn’t, he lets me lean in beside him, filling the screen with my face.

  Junior’s face fills the screen on the other side, but I see parts of Nico and Stefano behind him.

  “Alessia,” Junior speaks quickly. “Tell me where you are.” He says it in Italian—clever thinking.

  “Volgograd!” I shout.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Vlad immediately rips the tablet away from me, holding it high in the air and ending the call.

  “No,” I s
ob as the tablet goes silent. “Wait—please. I’m sorry.”

  I suddenly care less about being found than I do about just seeing my family. Talking to them. Letting them know I’m okay. I saw the dark circles under Junior’s eyes. The deeper lines. He should be on a honeymoon right now, not frantic over me.

  “Now you lose privileges.” Vlad takes a menacing step in my direction. His face is hard. I swear, he’s more annoyed with me now than he was when I stabbed him.

  “Let me talk to them. Please. Or just let me see them. Mute my side, I won’t say a word.”

  “Nyet.”

  “Please. No Italian. No funny business—I swear.” Tears fall down my cheeks. I can’t stop them. I’m suddenly so homesick. So alone.

  The tablet rings again.

  Vlad points at the bed. “Sit.”

  I sit where he tells me, giving him big begging puppy eyes. The white pumps drop from my feet.

  Vlad answers the call. “You may have noticed your sister’s bridal gown. Today we married. I am so pleased to make this alliance with American mafia,” he says, like he’s giving a toast at our reception. “You can count on me to treat her well so long as you wire me the funds to keep her in the style she’s accustomed to.”

  I hear one of my brothers curse under his breath in Italian.

  “Six million. One million for each of my men you killed, paid over twenty-four months. That’s a quarter million a month. I will text you the routing and account numbers. First payment is due in four hours.” He looks at his watch.

  “We send it all now and Alessia comes home,” Junior growls.

  “Nyet. She’s my bride. She stays with me. Twenty-four months. How she’s treated depends on you.”

  Another Italian curse. Sounds like Stefano.

  “Let us see her again.” It’s Nico’s voice now. “We need to know you haven’t harmed her.”

  Vlad glances over at me, then back at the screen. “You speak Italian, I end the call. How do you say it—capiche?”

  “Understood,” Stefano says.