Chapter 12 Nadya #2
"Mama would make Olivier salad and herring under a fur coat. The table would be covered with food, and we'd eat until we couldn't move."
I feel nostalgia warming me.
"Your parents are gone now."
It's not a question.
I've mentioned them before.
"Three years ago. Mamochka had cancer. Batya, well… I don't want to talk about it."
My mood sours, but I try to push those memories away.
"Must be difficult having no one to give you gifts for Novy God."
He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small velvet box and my breath catches.
"Xander, no."
My body stiffens from head to toe and I shake my head.
I can't accept any more lavish gifts from him.
Not only do I not know what they mean to him, but Irina won't believe I keep getting so lucky with work lost and found.
"Open it," he says, offering it to me, but I don't move.
When he sets the box on the seat between us, I cover my face and press my fingers into my eye sockets, wishing this would go away.
"I can't accept any more gifts from you. The dress, the earrings, the tree for the apartment—it's too much."
I lower my hands to see him staring at me with that insistent expression he gets as if I’m defying orders.
"Open it."
I've learned not to argue with him, though I desperately want to.
With shaking fingers, I pick up the box and lift the lid.
A diamond necklace nestles against black velvet.
Not huge or flashy, but clearly expensive.
The stones catch the passing streetlights and throw tiny rainbows.
"I can't."
My voice comes out as a whisper and dread knots in my chest.
I cannot keep doing this.
"You can and you will."
"People will ask questions. Irina already suspects—"
"Let her suspect."
He takes the necklace from the box and scoots closer to me.
"Turn around."
All I can do is follow orders, despite wanting to tell this man to turn his fucking car around and take me home.
And this time it's not fear of his gun that has me molding to his will, it's an inability to upset him or hurt his feelings.
What the fuck is happening to me?
I care whether he is disappointed by my reaction and I should be clawing his eyes out for my freedom.
His fingers brush my neck as he fastens the clasp.
The diamonds feel cool against my skin.
When he's finished, his hands rest on my shoulders for a moment.
I feel him press a kiss to the back of my head.
"There," he says.
I touch the necklace with trembling fingers.
"Why?"
"Because you're mine."
Those words he's said to me a number of times now, but they're starting to lose the novelty.
His possessiveness pushed a button I had the first few times he said it.
Now I'm beginning to feel like I'll lose my individuality and freedom because of them.
"I shouldn't be here," I whisper.
"But you are."
"I should go home. To my family. To my real life."
I say the words and I fully mean them because they're true.
But somehow, there's a deep gnawing sadness in my chest when I do.
I hate that I clean up after him and help him bury his crime, but my life changed when I met Xander.
I feel alive and seen.
I feel valued and wanted, even if it is by a criminal organization.
"This is your real life now," he says matter-of-factly, and I almost cry.
He's right.
Somewhere between scrubbing floors in crime scenes and falling asleep in his bed, this became real.
More real than any lie I could tell my sister.
More real than my old dreams of finishing university.
"I can't keep lying to them."
"Then don't."
"What am I supposed to say? That I clean up after murders? That I'm sleeping with a man who kills people?"
I press a palm to my face and grimace.
He doesn't understand anything.
Of course, in his world, it makes sense to say, "I met a Mafia man and I'm so in love."
His expression doesn't change.
"You could tell them you found a better job. That you're being taken care of."
"By whom?"
"By me."
His eyes are gunmetal, hardened on me as I flounder.
I so desperately want to be taken care of, but at what cost?
My heart is pulled toward him, but my mind screams to run away.
"Xander, my sister won't be okay with me dating a criminal, let alone working for one."
I feel the same familiar panic leaching into every fiber of my being.
"We'll figure it out."
"That's not an answer," I plead, again covering my face as my elbows rest on my knees.
"It's the only answer I can give you right now."
The car slows and turns into a circular driveway.
I look up and see a massive house lit up for the holidays.
Other cars are parked along the drive, and men in expensive coats walk toward the entrance.
Igor stops the car and gets out to open our door.
Xander steps out first, then offers me his hand.
I hesitate for a moment, then take it.
The cold air hits me immediately, but his grip is warm and steady.
He doesn't let go as we walk toward the house.
"Stay close to me tonight," he says quietly.
“Don't wander off. Don't talk to anyone unless I introduce you."
"Am I in danger?"
"You're with me. That's all that matters," he says, but I get the feeling that if I'm not on his arm I may be in danger.
I have no interest in leaving his side anyway.
At the entrance, two men in suits nod respectfully to Xander.
Their eyes linger on me for a moment, taking in the dress and jewelry, before looking away.
Inside, the house is warm and bright.
A massive tree dominates the front hall, covered in gold and silver ornaments.
Classical music plays softly in the background, and waiters move through the crowd carrying champagne.
I've never been anywhere this elegant.
Everything gleams—the marble floors, the crystal chandelier, the silk wallpaper.
Women in designer dresses and expensive jewelry chat with men in perfectly tailored suits.
Xander's hand settles on the small of my back, guiding me forward.
His touch burns through the dress.
"Remember," he murmurs against my ear, "you belong here. Act as though you do."
I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin.
The diamond necklace feels heavy around my throat, but I don't touch it.
I let Xander guide me deeper into the party, into his world, away from everything I used to be.
And despite every rational thought in my head telling me to run, I realize I don't want to leave.
I'm falling for him.
Not just attraction or the thrill of danger, but because of the way he looks at me and the way his voice softens when he says my name.
It's slightly terrifying but I've never felt safer than when I'm with him.
I'm his. For better or worse, I'm his.