Chapter Thirty
Catalina
Alexei’s men don’t follow me into the bookstore.
It’s not nearly as crowded as it was last time we were here, but it would still be obvious if they were following me around.
So like last time, they wait outside near the entrance as I browse, and I don’t feel quite so suffocated or smothered.
Even if I know they’re there, they’re unobtrusive.
I wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about coming here again, even if the occasions I leave the house are rare. It felt like an outing designed to shut me up, to keep me quiet and complacent. A treat thrown in my direction to keep me from whining.
But now I think…Alexei is trying. Genuinely. I don’t think it comes naturally to him. I think it’s uncomfortable and maybe unpleasant. He’s not the sort of man who has ever had to consider someone else’s opinion. Maybe he’s not the sort of man who has ever cared about making someone else happy.
But he’s trying. And that means something to me.
It would have been so easy, last night, for him to manhandle me back to his bedroom from the one I retreated to. It’s not like he hasn’t done it before. But he didn’t. Instead he just crawled into bed with me. Wrapped himself around me and held me against his chest, like he knew I was hurting.
It wasn’t an apology, exactly. I don’t think he makes them often, even when they’re deserved. Instead I think it was just meant to comfort me. Somehow I think this man—this mafia boss—really does care about me. I think he sincerely wants me to be happy.
With him.
And I could be. I want to be. I want so badly to believe in him. To trust him.
So as I assemble a small stack of books from the shelves before me, I count the things that make me feel…not so much the captive I think I was once meant to be.
He cares when he hurts my feelings. Even if he’s shit at apologizing for it, he cares.
He watches documentaries with me, even though they bore him out of his mind.
He keeps me insulated from his mobstering so I don’t have to think about it.
And he thinks nothing of sending everyone out of the house when I want his attention.
He always leaves a light on for me at night, because he knows I’m afraid of the dark.
If I don’t like a meal that’s served to me, it never appears again.
The fridges in the pool bar are always stocked with fresh mint and lime for my mojitos and bottles of the sweet white wine I like.
Every morning when I come downstairs, the first thing he does when he sees me is to sniff my neck to find out what perfume I chose.
When I ask him, he helps me paint my toenails. He’s terrible at it, but he does it anyway, just because I asked. And I love that.
I love him. I love him, but…I don’t want to admit to it just yet. I don’t want to be in love with someone who might not love me the same way.
I don’t want to make my mother’s mistakes all over again, to trust the wrong person too much.
And I know—I know she would tell me that even if she and Papa hated each other in the end, it was worth it for her, because she got me out of it.
But I know how much easier her life would have been if Papa had never come into it.
If I hadn’t. I know how hard she struggled as a single mother.
I don’t want to bring a child into instability, into a relationship that’s one-sided and uncertain. As indulgent as Alexei often is, I’m not even certain if I get that choice. If I’ll have to ask his permission just to go to the doctor when I’m due for another birth control shot in a few months.
But I love him. I want to give him the chance not to disappoint me. Maybe I want to give myself the chance to be happy. This relationship—whatever it is—isn’t traditional or conventional. But maybe that doesn’t matter, so long as it works for us.
And I want so badly for it to work.
I’m not certain how much time has passed—I don’t have a watch—but I don’t want to make Alexei worry.
Or to force my bodyguards to come searching for me.
These books will probably last me a week or two, depending upon how much of my time Alexei demands.
Anatoli is due back from Moscow in the next week, so I expect that Alexei’s schedule will soon be less demanding.
I don’t want to make another conciliatory trip to the mall for more books to keep me occupied. So I’ll tell him that. He’s got until I’m done with my books to find a solution that works for both of us. That’s fair, I think.
As I bend to collect the stack of books that sits beside me, a hand falls on my shoulder. Something cold touches the small of my back. Something hard and metallic.
A muted male voice whispers low, “Drop the books. Stand up slowly.”
I know that voice. It’s one of my father’s men; the one who was so frequently parked outside of my apartment.
And he has a gun. The muzzle of a gun is pressed against my spine.
In a bookstore. My heart races as I slowly unbend, leaving the books abandoned on the floor.
I’m in the biography section. There’s no one close enough to notice what is happening.
But I can see the top of someone’s head two rows over, in the mystery and thrillers section. My mouth opens—
“Scream and someone dies,” he warns, and the gun presses harder against my spine.
“Maybe it’s you. Maybe it’s her.” From the corner of my eye, I see his head jerk to indicate the children’s section some distance to our left.
There’s little girl sitting on the floor, her legs splayed out beneath the pink plaid skirt of her dress.
She’s probably about four years old, and her head is bent over her lap as she flips through the pages of a pop-up book.
Her mother is distracted, rooting through a diaper bag tucked underneath a stroller.
What kind of a monster threatens the life of a child?
I freeze. I whisper, “Alexei will—”
A whisper of a laugh. Biting and cruel. “Morozov won’t save you. He was stupid enough to leave you alone and unguarded.” Another jam of the gun into spine. “Walk,” he says. “To the right. Quiet. Casual. Or—”
“Someone dies,” I repeat dully.
“Good. You understand.” It’s a sneering reply.
It’s hard to be casual with a gun in your back. I’m deliberately slow about it, hoping desperately that I’ll have overstayed my allotted time. That Alexei will come barreling in. That his men will notice something’s gone wrong.
No one notices. We pass employees who don’t even glance in our direction.
I think he’s using something to shield the gun from view of the public.
His jacket, maybe, or a bag. No one has the slightest idea of what’s happening to me right in front of them.
No one seems to know that they’re only inches away from death—if I do something stupid. Like scream.
My mind reels through possibilities as we proceed toward the back of the store.
There’s an employee exit there, which I think leads out to a parking lot.
It’s behind the stores with no easy path into the mall, so shoppers don’t tend to use it.
But there could be security out there. Or police. Someone who will help me.
The door of the employee exit opens. The sunlight is almost blinding. There’s a black car waiting in the parking lot, engine running, and I know it’s meant for me. There’s only a handful of other cars, all parked. No people. No police. No mall security.
I can’t get into that car. Even if he shoots me.
Every muscle burns as I tear away from the gun at my back. My throat burns as I scream at the top of my lungs, “Alexei!”
“Stupid bitch!” A hand seizes my ponytail, yanking my head back so hard that my neck aches and tears spring to my eyes. And still I kick, bite, hit—until he slams the butt of the gun against my head, and with a burst of pain, everything goes dark.