Chapter 8 Anika
ANIKA
My muscles aches with tension as I rise from fitful dreams of red-eyed monsters seeping blood from countless holes, and I find myself curled up beneath the window of my makeshift prison.
I must have fallen asleep at some point last night, while trying to keep vigil for Michelangelo’s return.
But he never came back to my room, and an intense wave of relief washes through my stiff body to know that I made it through one more day without being violated.
Slowly unfolding myself, I stretch the limbs that spent too many hours tense with anticipation, then I peer out the window to guess what time it is.
The golden light is soft on the horizon, the landscape outside still cast in long shadows of the early morning.
Several Chiaroscuro men walk the perimeter of the property, but other than that, the compound looks oddly at peace—like the violence from the day before never happened.
A soft rap on my door pulls my focus to the far side of the bedroom, and my heart quickens.
“Yes?” I say, my brow furrowing when the person doesn’t just barge in after announcing their presence.
Once I speak, the handle turns, and a slight figure slips wordlessly into the room.
“Chastity,” I gasp, my gratitude at seeing her alive and well so overwhelming, it brings tears to my eyes. I rush across the room to pull my lady’s maid into a fierce hug.
She returns the gesture with just as much desperation, her slim arms tight around my ribcage.
“I’ve been so worried for you,” I breathe, holding her at an arm’s length so I can inspect her for any injuries.
“I’m fine, gospozha,” she assures me.
“What happened out there?” I press, giving her hands a squeeze.
“The Chiaroscuro men rounded up all the staff and questioned us about how long we’d been in the house and where our loyalties might lie,” Chastity explains, her round brown eyes wide with disbelief. “Any members he deemed trustworthy, he let go back to work.”
“And the others?” I ask, swallowing painfully as I think about what’s become of those poor souls.
“He’s keeping them locked away for now, with the promise to release them once he’s sure he can trust their loyalty.”
They didn’t execute anyone?
A dizzying relief sweeps through me. From what it sounded like, when Pyotr raided the Chiaroscuro estate, they didn’t hesitate to make a massacre of it, so that’s what I’d been picturing all night.
But it would seem the Chiaroscuros have an ounce of mercy in their blood after all—or at least, their new leader does.
The realization hits me then that this raid couldn’t have been initiated by Don Augusta. He’s dead. Pyotr made sure of that.
“Wait, who’s this ‘he’?” I ask, trying to recall the Chiaroscuro heir’s name. “Who was in charge of yesterday’s attack?”
“The oldest brother, it would seem, Michelangelo. He’s the one the men deferred to anyway.
And he asked specifically about your maid.
I was so scared when he pulled me aside for questioning.
Talk about intimidating, but he just asked a few questions and decided to let me go back to my duties…
with the warning that if I help you escape, he won’t hesitate to kill me.
” A shudder ripples through Chastity at the memory, and her eyes are sympathetic.
“I’m so sorry, gospozha. I didn’t know what else to do but agree. ”
“Don’t be sorry,” I assure her, pulling her in for another hug. “I’m just glad you’re alright.”
Chastity nods, squeezing me in return.
“How many were injured?” I press.
“Soldiers?” Chastity steps back, shaking her head. “I can’t say—more than I could count.”
“And the staff?” They’re the ones I feel worst about.
Most of them are good people, with nothing to do with my husband’s brutal business. Pyotr’s men are different.
They chose a life of violence and crime. They knew the risks. But the house staff are just ordinary people trying to make a living in this unforgiving world. I can’t imagine how terrified they must have been.
“Two are missing, Alek and Ivan, but Yelena said she saw them make it to the property line—so they could have escaped. The rest are fine.” Chastity sounds almost baffled, and I can hardly blame her.
For how bloody my experience of yesterday was, I can hardly believe so many innocent people could have made it out alive.
“And Svetlana?”
“Fine, she’s fine,” Chastity assures me quickly. “She was confined to her room during the violence, and I checked on her as soon as I was allowed.”
I feel as though I can breathe for the first time in forever, and I release the oxygen trapped in my lungs in a rush. Tears of relief sting my eyes, and I quickly blink them back.
“Are you alright, gospozha?” she asks, her voice more tentative now.
I don’t even know where to begin unpacking the answer to that question, so I start with a simple, physical assessment. “I’m fine. I’ve just been stuck in here, worrying about you all,” I say, looking around the room.
She nods, her eyes flicking down to my cheek for a moment and the bruise that’s starting to show from Pyotr’s backhand yesterday morning.
Typically, I would have covered it up with makeup by now, but all that is down the hall in the master suite, so my shame is visible for anyone to see.
“I was instructed to help you get ready for breakfast,” she explains, holding up a fresh dress I hadn’t even noticed before in my relief to find her alive. “The boss wants an audience with you.”
“Right.” Glancing down at the dress I slept in, I find it rumpled and stained with dark handprints that make my stomach squirm.
No doubt they’re from my captor chasing me down and carrying me to this room—which means the brownish-red smears are likely Pyotr’s blood. “I’ll just take a quick shower first.”
Chastity waits as I get cleaned up and dressed, then helps me braid my wet locks back from my face.
It doesn’t take long to get ready, and I stand beside her as she knocks on the door to be let out.
It opens, the guard from yesterday, Vittorio, standing at the threshold, and he gives Chastity a cursory nod before he turns his attention to me. “He’s waiting for you,” the guard says. “I’ll escort you downstairs. I would advise you not to run.”
Something in the grave tenor of his warning sends a shiver down my spine. I imagine that means Michelangelo’s patience has limits—and I don’t want to find out what happens if I exceed them.
Chastity and I share a glance before I step out into the hall to follow Vittorio.
Despite his warning, as soon as I’m free of my makeshift prison, the urge to run nearly overwhelms me.
If I weren’t barefoot and surrounded by Chiaroscuro men, I might take the risk.
But we’ve passed five of them before we’ve even made it to the stairs, and I know I wouldn’t get far. Better to wait and watch for a realistic opportunity if I’m going to run.
Even I know that chance won’t likely come again.
Not now that I’ve become a prisoner in my home once more.
I’m led into the breakfast room, and my heart flutters anxiously as a wave of horrifying flashbacks comes rushing to my mind’s eye: Pyotr with his face beaten and bloody, his torso punctured with weeping holes, the crimson smile that Michelangelo opened at his throat before he collapsed, lifeless, to the ground.
My eyes stray toward the spot where my husband fell.
The Persian area rug is missing, and it looks like someone thoroughly scrubbed the dark wood floor beneath it—but any evidence of Pyotr’s bloody execution has been wiped away by now.
“I’m so glad you decided to join us.” The deep, booming voice snaps me from my reverie, and my eyes jerk up to find Michelangelo Chiaroscuro watching me closely.
His keen gaze holds a deep intelligence. His strong jaw and powerful neck are a reminder that he’s not just smart but physically capable of overpowering me with ease—I can still feel his iron hold around my waist from yesterday, the rock-hard strength of his torso as he restrained me.
And yet, the way his dark curls fall haphazardly into his eyes gives him an almost boyish charm.
He’s wearing a crisp Italian suit today, one that looks freshly tailored, and I wonder when he had the time to get a new outfit between having his family home burned to the ground and coming to obliterate mine.
Thankfully, it would seem, he chose to leave the Novikov compound mostly in one piece—as far as I can tell—a courtesy I’m sure Pyotr did not extend to the Chiaroscuros.
Whether he’s dressed in a casual henley and jeans or business attire, Michelangelo cuts an intimidating figure, filling out the fabric in ways that remind me of the rippling muscles hidden beneath.
He carries himself with the effortless confidence of someone raised in wealth, the kind of self-assurance that comes from being a Chiaroscuro—where the name alone holds so much power, the number of zeros in your bank account is almost irrelevant.
His greeting reinforces that fact, the cocky assumption that I decided to be in his presence—as if I had any say in the matter.
“I didn’t realize there was a choice,” I say dryly, that old habit of speaking my mind unexpectedly rearing its head. It couldn’t have come at a worse time, and I bite my tongue, my heart rate jumping as I brace for my captor’s wrath.
Instead, a slow smile creeps across his lips, amusement dancing over his features, and he gestures for me to take a seat in the chair next to him. Tentatively, I step forward to obey.
His three brothers sit across the table from me, their dark eyes a stark contrast to the oldest Chiaroscuro’s icy-blue ones as they study me with open curiosity.
All three are just as muscular and physically imposing as their older brother—a trait that must run in the family. I swallow hard as my hands start to shake, and I bury them in my lap beneath the table to hide my nerves.
“Do you know who we are, Signora Novikov?” Michelangelo asks, drawing my eyes back to his startling blue ones.
“The Chiaroscuro brothers,” I say without hesitation.