Chapter 19 Ivy
IVY
Ican’t stop replaying in my mind Konstantin’s kiss. Every time I sit still, it rushes in—his hand firm at my waist and the way he whispered my name against my lips. Hiding in my room only makes it worse, so I pull on a sweater and slip into the hall. No one told me I had to stay put.
The house smells like fir and beeswax. Ropes of greenery climb the banisters. White lights are tucked between red ribbon and pinecones. It’s quiet enough that my steps sound too loud, but the staff who pass me only nod and keep moving, their arms full of wreaths, linen, and silver trays.
I find the library by accident. It’s two stories high with a balcony and a ladder on rails that begs to be climbed.
Winter light pours through tall windows and lands in warm squares across the rugs.
Shelves run end to end with books on history, economics, poetry, and entire rows of Russian authors.
There are even first editions behind glass.
I trail my fingers over the spines until I can’t help it and slide out a worn copy of Anna Karenina and curl into a leather chair. For a few minutes, the ache in my chest fades, even as I read about doomed lovers. It’s almost worth marrying him just to have this room. Almost.
After a while, I return the book back to its place on the shelf and continue my exploration.
Past the library, a pair of double doors opens on a gallery.
That’s the only word I have for it. Paintings line the walls depicting a variety of scenes such as winter streets, storm-gray seas, and dark forests where snow clings to birch trees.
There are portraits, too. Men with the same sharp eyes, women in satin and diamonds.
Little brass plaques whisper names and dates.
I read each one, fitting together a family tree from fragments.
One older oil looks so much like Konstantin that my breath catches.
The man in the portrait has the same mouth and unblinking gaze.
This has to be a family portrait gallery.
The resemblance is too uncanny. I didn’t even know people still had these kinds of rooms, except maybe for nobility in England or something.
I should go back. Instead, I follow the corridor around another turn and stop at a heavy door. The handle turns under my fingers. It isn’t locked.
I stand there a long moment with my hand on the knob, arguing with myself. Curiosity isn’t a crime. Neither is taking a walk. I push the door open and step inside.
It’s warmer here, softer. A long desk sits with its back to a large window. Two chairs sit opposite it with legs angled in like they’ve been pulled close for hard conversations. A small tree glows in the corner with white lights and thin silver ornaments.
And then I catch the faint scent of Konstantin and realize I’ve stumbled into his office. I’m a little surprised. I expected his office to be more like his personality—controlled and cold.
That kiss wasn’t cold!
I shiver just at the thought of the kiss and then close the door behind me. I don’t want anyone catching me snooping around, especially in the boss’s office.
My heart beats a little too fast. “Just looking,” I assure myself.
On the credenza near the desk sits a decanter and two crystal tumblers. Beside them, an unmarked black key fob. I turn it over, searching for a logo. Nothing. I set it back exactly where it was.
The photo draws me. Up close, the glass reflects the lights on the tree, but I angle it until the glare slips away.
Two boys stand on a dock, wet to the knees, hair slicked to their heads.
The taller one is Konstantin. He looks younger, more carefree, but the eyes are the same.
The other boy scowls into the sun like he hates the camera on principle.
I move to the bookcase and scan the spines. Ledgers. Law codes. A thin velvet box with cuff links—dark blue stone in silver. I lift them, feel the weight, and put them back. My fingers slide over a slight scratch along the shelf’s edge.
There’s a framed map on the wall with colored pins in neat rows.
Dates are written in pencil in the margin.
Cocking my head to the side, I study it for a minute, trying to figure out why the pins are there and what it means.
Why does a Mafia guy need this kind of map?
Is he planning on taking territories? Is that even a thing, other than in movies?
I shake my head. I have no idea what real Mafia life is like, but here I am, thrust into the middle of it.
The large desk and the mystery of what’s inside its drawers beckon me.
Should I? I can’t, it wouldn’t be right.
I’m going to.
The first drawer slides open without a sound. Pens, sticky notes, and a set of heavy paper clips that feel expensive in my palm are set in neat piles.
The next drawer holds file folders, a stack of envelopes with thick paper and custom letterheads, and a beautiful leather-bound book. Maybe it’s a journal with all Konstantin’s personal thoughts? I breathe out slowly, reach for the notebook, and ease it free.
Disappointment settles over me as I flip through the pages. Most of what’s written in it is in some kind of code, but I know enough about bookkeeping to recognize some of the transactions.
I’m about to put it back into the drawer when I notice something pushed to the back.
Bending, I crane my neck to look deeper into the drawer and see a small, dark walnut color palm-sized box.
I reach in and pull it out, frustrated and excited at the same time when I see the tiny brass lock on it.
Frustrated because it’s locked, but excited because maybe that means it has something in it that might tell me a little more about the man I’m supposed to marry.
I glance at the door nervously and pause, listening.
Nothing. I’ve still got time. My gaze pauses on the way back to the box in my hand.
There, on the credenza, is a small wood-carved fox.
I smile knowing it must be from Viktor. The man almost always has a chunk of wood and a carving knife in his hands.
I’d seen other carvings as I toured the estate today.
By the back stairs, there was a bear. On a fireplace mantel was a wolf, and a swan sat near the terrace doors.
It amazes me that such a big man with equally big hands, hands that become weapons with fists and guns, can create such gentle creatures.
I turn my attention back to the box. What’s so important inside that Konstantin needs to keep it locked? A chill runs through me as my imagination runs wild from watching too many movies. It’s too small to hold a human heart, but what if it’s a finger from one of his enemies?
God, I’m losing my mind!
But what will life with Konstantin be like? Some women might like the idea of living in luxury like at this estate, despite it being a Mafia house. Me? I’m not so sure about that. It seems like I’m exchanging one danger for another, choosing one devil over another.
That’s not what you thought when you were kissing him.
I wince and flush at the thought, my hand tightening on the box. No, I wasn’t thinking about how dangerous Konstantin is. I was thinking about how I could get my body even closer to him.
So maybe the sex part won’t be so bad if that kiss was any indication, but how about the rest?
I’ll still always be in danger just because of who Konstantin is and what he does for a living.
Everywhere I go, I’ll likely have guards with me, watching my every move.
For my protection. Even after Vadim is taken care of.
Will I be able to see my friends or do I have to give them up too, like I would have in the Witness Protection program?
I shake my head and sigh.
I look back down at the box. Wait a minute, this isn’t a lock. It’s just a latch. I carefully lift it, just enough to see the corner of a piece of cream-colored paper.
The sound of a door slowly opening startles me and I nearly drop the box. Footsteps cross the threshold. The door closes with a soft thud. I don’t have to look to know who it is. The air changes when he’s near. The hair on my neck knows before my eyes do.
Konstantin stands just inside the door. His gaze moves across the open drawer, then settles on the box held in my now shaking hands.