Chapter 6 Anika
ANIKA
The world around me closes in, shrinking until I can feel the walls pressing the air from my lungs.
I’m trapped—just like I was with Pyotr.
Only, at least with Pyotr, I knew his triggers and how to minimize the backlash.
I know nothing about this new monster.
I can’t predict what he’ll do next, and if I’ve learned one thing in my year as Pyotr’s wife, it’s to fear the unexpected.
Cold shivers rack my body as I stay pressed against the wall, staring at the door Michelangelo left through until I’ve lost track of how much time has passed.
I had one chance to get a way, one opportunity to escape this godforsaken life, and I blew it.
Devastation seeps through me, settling deep in my bones, and I let my back slide down the wall as I fold in on myself, collapsing to the floor.
I had one bid for freedom, and I blew it.
The tears come hot and fast now that I’m alone, and I bury my face in my knees, wrapping my arms around them as I sob.
I never dreamed there might be a fate worse than the one I’d already been given, but the thought of marrying the man who just reveled in the act of killing my husband in cold blood seems to top it.
Yes, I thought Michelangelo was charming and attractive that night I met him.
I can even admit that I’ve thought of him, off and on, through the trial of this past agonizing year of my marriage.
When I got lost inside the dark cavern of Pyotr’s anger, I would picture Michelangelo smiling down at me, my champagne wet on his suit jacket.
I could imagine that there was a man out there in the world who wouldn’t get angry at those kind of mistakes—who might even try to comfort me for making one.
But after watching the ruthless way Michelangelo fought, after hearing the hatred he has for the Novikovs, I know the truth of the matter.
He’s not marrying me because he cares about me—even if he says it’s to keep me safe from a worse fate.
He’s marrying me because my last name is Novikov, and he wants to crush that name into dust.
I’ll be nothing more than his toy to play with, the widow of his rival who he can continue to take revenge upon now that Pyotr’s dead.
He won’t treat me any more kindly than the last man who wanted to marry me.
Why would he?
I’m the wife of his sworn enemy—the man who killed his father.
I could hear it in the venom dripping from his words. Michelangelo Chiaroscuro is just another monster, come to bend me to his will.
I know it’s weak.
Pathetic.
But I can’t stop crying. I sob and sob, until I have no more tears to cry.
And when I finally wipe my face, I stay curled in my ball against the wall, watching the door, waiting for what comes next.
Because I know the dark truth of this world.
When men come to conquer, they take what they want without question. I imagine, in the chaos following the battle, Michelangelo had to ensure he took full control.
But he’ll be back. And when he comes, I shudder to think of what he’ll want from me.
It’s an agonizing wait, especially when I can hear the muffled voices filtering up from downstairs.
The gruff, male commands and raucous laughter.
The screams have stopped, at least, and as far as I can tell, no one is openly crying.
But I’m not sure if that’s because the worst of the violence is done or if there’s just no one left to suffer.
My chest aches when I think of all the good people who worked for Pyotr, all the maids who felt like friends, the kitchen staff that never treated me like I was unwelcome.
My life with my husband might have been a living hell, but I can’t say that I was completely alone.
My pulse quickens anxiously when I think of frail, old Svetlana, and I silently will her to be okay, but a woman that age could too easily get caught in the crosshairs of a violent takeover.
Sniffling, I try not to think too hard on any one person and what might have come of them.
If I do, I might just go insane. It was Pyotr’s job to protect the people who work for him—my responsibility to keep them safe—and we both failed them miserably.
I don’t know how long I sit there, waiting. My phone got lost somewhere in the morning’s chaos, and the guest room doesn’t even have a bedside alarm clock to inform me of the time.
So, instead, I gauge the general hour by the sunlight through the wide picture window as the brilliant yellow orb makes its way across the sky.
It’s dipping near the horizon when someone finally knocks on the door, then slowly opens it without waiting for my permission.
The guard Michelangelo referred to as Vittorio earlier opens the door, a tray balanced on his palm.
“Some food for you, signora,” he says, sliding the tray onto the dresser near the door.
The scent of roasted tomato and herbs travels across the open space, tickling my nose. My tummy growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten anything but a few pieces of fruit since this morning, and my mouth starts to water. But I stay put until Vittorio has withdrawn from the room once more.
From the soft conversation in the hall, I can assume he’s not alone, and I wait until I catch the sound of receding footsteps before I slowly rise from the ball I’ve been curled in for the larger part of the day.
Tentatively, I make my way across the room, keeping an ear out for any motion in the hallway.
But everything’s quiet as I reach the tray of food, a simple glass of water set beside a bowl of hearty stew and a fresh dinner roll. I have to bite back the groan of appreciation.
It smells insanely good—good enough that I suspect Yelena cooked it. I hope that means she’s safe and unhurt.
But as I reach for the spoon, an alarm bell goes off in the back of my mind. What if they drugged the food?
Not Yelena—I’m sure she wouldn’t. But any number of men could have tampered with the meal, hoping to incapacitate me so I won’t put up a fight.
My stomach knots as I take a step back from the appetizing food. I can’t trust it.
Instead, I head into the bathroom and turn on the faucet to fill my stomach with water.
Then I return to my position on the floor near the window, and curling back into my defensive ball, I watch the door, ready and waiting for Michelangelo to try taking what he wants from me.