Chapter 15 Bella
BELLA
The cheery morning sun has absolutely no respect for the three hours of sleep I managed to cobble together.
I’m on my second cup of coffee when my phone buzzes to tell me that Alik is here.
Anthony is already at school, Lydia offered to drop him off early because today’s the day Ms. Patterson promised the class could bring in their favorite stuffed animals.
And God forbid he misses that. He’d clutched Mr. Whiskers (a tragically named elephant) like his life depended on it and barely remembered to kiss me goodbye.
Kids are resilient. Their guardians? Less so.
I grab my bag and head downstairs, expecting to see the same SUV from last night. Instead, I find a sleek black Mercedes outside of my building, and leaning against the door is the giant Russian who’d been talking with Slava at the gala—and not in that kiss-ass way other guests were.
He’s got a sour expression on his face, like someone pissed in his protein shake this morning.
He opens the back door with all the enthusiasm of a man being forced to hold someone’s purse. “Get in.”
“Good morning to you too.”
He doesn’t respond and remains in place, radiating the kind of low-level hostility like I’m somehow personally responsible for all of his life’s problems. I suppose in some way, I am.
Not exactly in the mood to make more enemies than I have to, I slide into the back seat. As soon as I’m inside, he closes the door with slightly more force than necessary before settling into the driver’s side.
We pull away from the curb, and I watch the streets zoom past me in a blur.
Except we’re going the wrong way.
“Um.” I lean forward. “This isn’t the way to the office.”
“No.” Alik’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror and he doesn’t bother hiding the irritation in his voice. “It isn’t.”
My pulse kicks up. “Care to elaborate?”
“Mr. Romanov has decided to relocate your workspace.” The words sound like they physically pain him. “To his penthouse.”
I stare at the back of his head. “I’m sorry, what?”
“His penthouse.” Alik takes a sharp left turn that I’m fairly certain is more aggressive than the road requires. “Unfortunately, I have to spend my morning driving you there, Ms. Creminelli.”
Fair enough.
I sit back and watch the city blur past, trying to process this development. My phone buzzes in my lap. It’s Nico.
Are you at the penthouse yet?
The words glow up at me, innocent and devastating. I read them twice, three times, my stomach slowly sinking toward my feet.
Another text appears:
I want to apologize for my men’s behavior last night. It was necessary.
Necessary? It was fucking necessary?
His men had a fucking gun down my throat! If Slava hadn’t gotten to them by the time he did, I’m pretty fucking sure they would’ve raped me. And the only thing he can say is that it was necessary?
I choose not to respond.
My hands flex open and closed as I mull over everything. Just how much of this did Nico plan? Did he always intend to put me inside of Slava’s penthouse the moment he heard about how Slava and I saved each other at the Bellamy gallery the other week?
Was I really even in danger from his men last night?
Or did I inadvertently play my part perfectly? Wide-eyed and terrified and grateful when my enemy swept in like a dark knight.
But that means…
Was Nico okay with just sending three of his men to their deaths so that he can put me in Slava’s penthouse? If he was willing to sacrifice his own men, then how do I know he won’t sacrifice me when it becomes convenient?
For the last five years, I thought I was the one in control of my plan of vengeance. Suddenly, I’m not so sure if I’m a player or just a pawn on a board I can’t even see.
But as the doubt starts burrowing into my bones, another thought starts to surface—one that carries a whole new meaning after last night.
Spread those pretty legs and get in bed with him.
Heat rushes my cheeks and I close my eyes only to open them immediately.
“Fuck that,” I mutter.
Alik’s eyes find mine in the mirror. “Something on your mind?”
“No.” I straighten in my seat and tug on my seat belt. “Nothing.”
He swears in a string of mumbling Russian, shakes his head, and keeps driving.
The elevator opens directly into the penthouse and I want to say I’m not surprised.
Because why would a man like Slava Romanov have something as pedestrian as a hallway between himself and the rest of the world?
Nonetheless, the view still manages to take my breath away.
The space is designed to overwhelm you. The hardwood floor is polished and spotless, branching away into two main hallways from the entrance.
An intricate and almost impossibly large chandelier hangs from the twenty-foot ceiling.
Beige leather couches take up the center of the sunken living room.
They’re positioned towards the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the Manhattan skyline like a living painting.
I wonder how many times has Slava sat there staring at the skyline while some nameless woman’s head bobs up and down on his dick. I wonder how many times he’s fucked them against those windows.
Jesus Christ, Bella, get it together.
Then, as if summoned by my thoughts, his voice rumbles from my left. “Ms. Creminelli.”
and I turn and immediately forget how to breathe.
Slava is standing at the entrance of the hallway with a white towel slung over his shoulder and wearing nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants hanging so low that I can see the two lines on his lower abdomen that lead straight towards his dick.
I swallow, and hope that he doesn’t notice.
His chest is broad and bare, and his skin glistens with sweat from whatever sadistic workout routine he must’ve been putting himself through. But my eyes are drawn to the dark tattoos and scars that cover his body.
Dark ink spreading across his chest, wrapping around his shoulders and trailing down his arms. There are stars on his shoulders, a cathedral across his chest, and skulls with knives in them ringing his right bicep.
A long jagged scar runs down his left, and there are smaller ones criss-crossing over his chest and belly.
I’ve known that he’s Bratva. I’ve done my research on what Russian criminal tattoos look like. But nothing prepared me for the reality of seeing them on him.
And I certainly wasn’t prepared for how good he looks with them.
“You’re early.”
I tip my chin towards his chest. “This is hardly appropriate workplace attire.”
God, I hate how my voice wavers.
He takes a step closer, and I can smell his clean sweat. Heat crawls up my neck and his gaze pins me in place until I’m looking up at him again.
But I don’t back away this time.
Just because I’m in his home, doesn’t mean that I’m going to play by his rules.
He keeps going until the distance between us shrinks down to just a few impossible inches. A slow wet heat starts to pulse between us, and I have a hard time telling if it’s him or me. His eyes dart down for a moment, and I know he’s looking for that damn necklace.
Well, too bad. I have it safely tucked behind my blouse, which has been buttoned all the way up. If he wants to see it, he’ll have to strip me first.
“Then you can get started while I change into something more appropriate,” he says. “Ms. Creminelli.”
I can’t help the next words out of my mouth. “Are we back to pretending?”
The smile curves on his face again and sends my heart thudding in my chest.
“Your workstation is set up in my office.” He holds my gaze for a beat too long. “Ludmilla will show you the way.”
“Fine.”
“I’ll be in the shower.”
Why did he have to say it like he did—low and intimate, like he’s letting me in on a secret?
He gives his head a shake, flicking a few errant drops of his sweat from his brow onto my blouse, and walks down the long hallway. The drops bloom for a second, then soak the fabric with his darkly masculine scent.
Chewing my lower lip, I watch him walk down the long hallway to a room, doing my best to not imagine hot water running down his scarred body and dark tattoos.
The top button of my blouse now feels like it’s choking me, and even though I know it’s a bad idea, I reach up and pop it open. I’ll button it back up later, I tell myself, before he comes back. And in the process, I give the seven-pointed star a squeeze.
“Ms. Creminelli?”
I spin around and see an older woman standing behind me. Her face betrays nothing, and her hands are clasped in front of her.
My hand tightens around the pendant. Where the hell did she come from? Did she see all of that?
If she did, she's being awfully discreet about it. I figure she has to be. After all, who knows how many women Slava has brought back into this apartment.
“I’m Ludmilla.” Her accent is thick, but warm. There’s an unexpected kindness in her eyes that makes her seem almost out of place here. “Please, follow me.”
Wordless, I fall into step behind her down the other hallway, cheeks burning and fighting the desperate urge to look back at the hallway Slava disappeared down.
The penthouse unfolds around me as Ludmilla leads me through its labyrinthine interior.
We walk past a dining room with a table that can easily seat twenty.
Next is a library with leather-bound books that I suspect are organized by color rather than content.
Then, we move past a single room where I notice a thin layer of dust on the door handle.
Everything in here is perfectly placed, perfectly curated, and perfectly controlled. It takes me a moment to notice that there are no family photos and no personal touches.
This place doesn’t feel lived in. It just exists. My fingers continue squeezing the pendant as I walk.
“How long have you worked for him?” I ask, more to fill the silence than anything else.
Ludmilla glances back at me. “I’ve worked for Slava Danilovich for fifteen years.”
“I thought his name was Slava Romanov?”