Chapter 23 Bella
BELLA
Slava’s hand finds the small of my back as we board, and I want so badly to lean into his warmth.
"Ms. Creminelli." Nico’s smile is sharklike as he greets me by my fake name. "So glad you could make it."
I have no time before Nico’s hands clamp down on my shoulders, and his lips brush my left cheek, and then my right, in the perfect display of Italian hospitality.
Slava goes rigid beside me, and Nico meets his eyes. There’s no mistaking the dare in his gaze: Come on, Romanov. Do it.
“My father is waiting.” Nico tilts his head into the yacht and starts walking. “He is very eager to speak with you both.”
The emphasis on very sends a steady drip of dreadful ice into my veins. I look back at Slava as the dread intensifies. But there’s no backing off now.
My feet begin to move without my permission. Every step sends the dread snaking deeper into my heart, and every breath feels like another warning to run, run, run!
Behind me, I feel Slava’s hand resting on my waist, and I can’t tell if he’s trying to comfort me or steady himself. Slowly, I reach back and take his hand in mine. He gives it a squeeze, but his warmth can’t breach the ice around my heart this time.
Nico leads us through a sliding door and the noise dims. We pass through a salon dripping with crystal and leather, past a dining room with a full-size dining table, down a narrow corridor lined with oil paintings of Mediterranean coastlines, and through a bedroom with a four-poster bed.
Finally, we emerge onto the aft deck. It’s private and shrouded away from the laughter and music of the party elsewhere.
And there he is.
A fat man in his seventies sits in a massive hot tub.
There’s a cigar clamped between his yellow teeth, and rolls of tanned flesh spill over the hot tub’s edge.
When he shifts his position, his sagging jowls flap around like a bulldog, and I can’t help but notice the general air of decay barely held at bay by expensive grooming.
Four armed guards stand at attention around the deck’s perimeter. They don’t look at us. They don’t need to. Their guns are doing all the talking right now.
“Father,” Nico announces. “Our guests have arrived.”
“Don Leo.” Slava greets him curtly.
“So they have,” Don Leo grunts. “Welcome to my birthday party.”
Don Leo’s eyes find me first. They travel down my body the same way a man might look at a prized racehorse. It starts at my face, lingering on my chest, and then slides down to my hips. He chortles every once in a while, not bothering to be subtle about it as he rapes me with his eyes.
I want to run. I want to dive overboard and swim until my arms give out and Long Island Sound swallows me whole.
Then his eyes pause on my necklace.
His eyes flare just a hair too wide, and his gaze darts to Slava. For a heartbeat, I see a pure, festering rage before it disappears underneath an oily smile.
“Beautiful piece,” he says, gesturing at my throat with his cigar before waving us towards him. “Come. Come. Get in. We’re friends here, after all.”
Slava tenses ever so slightly behind me. No we’re not.
But we have no choice. I move toward the hot tub’s edge, fully prepared to step in wearing my sundress. Let the fabric get ruined. I’ll sacrifice a hundred dresses if that’s what it takes.
“Ah-ah, ragazza.” Don Leo wags a fat finger at me. “No clothes in my tub. House rules, I’m afraid.”
The way he speaks makes me want to vomit.
“Her clothes stay on,” Slava speaks up.
Don Leo narrows his eyes and takes a long pull from his cigar. “Says you?”
“Says me.”
“Well,” Don Leo sighs. “If Slava Romanov says so, then we ought to do it. Right boys? Wouldn’t want him to lose his temper and put more of us in the fucking ground.”
A ring of cold laughter rises from the guards, and one of them turns the gun in his hand.
“But,” he continues. “You come to me on my seventieth birthday party, after my own son came to fetch you for a private meeting with me, and you show up empty-handed. No gifts, no well-wishes, not even a fucking happy birthday.”
“Must’ve slipped our mind,” Slava growls.
“But because it is my birthday,” Don Leo says. “It means I’m inclined to forgive your trespasses. And if I’m willing to extend this small gesture of respect for you, then maybe you can extend one for me and dress appropriately for my hot tub.”
“Fine,” Slava says.
With mechanical precision, he takes off his shirt, pants, and shoes, until he’s in his black swim briefs.
“Satisfied?”
“Almost,” Don Leo says. His eyes turn to me again, and he licks his lips. “Now you, ragazza.”
Slava holds out a hand. “She doesn’t have to.”
The smile curdles on Don Leo’s face, and one of his men starts raising his gun.
“That wasn’t a fucking request, Romanov,” he says. “And in case you’ve forgotten, you’re on my yacht. So you play by my rules.”
He looks back towards me. “Strip, girl.”
With shaking hands, I start reaching for the hem of my dress.
The sundress falls away, leaving me in the one-piece bathing suit. But even this feels like it’s far too exposed. I wrap my arms around my body, away from Don Leo’s lecherous gaze.
His guards all share his smile. Slava looks like he’s ready to kill. My eyes spy Nico, and to my surprise, I see a slight discomfort in his eyes.
“Now, get in,” Don Leo commands.
Finally, I realize what this really is. Don Leo isn’t just making us uncomfortable for sport.
He’s making sure we’re unarmed.
Clever. Terrifying. But clever.
I step into the hot tub, the water burns, but the heat remains skin deep. Slava follows, lowering himself into the space beside me until our thighs press together beneath the churning surface.
Under the water, hidden by the bubbles and steam, his hand finds mine.
I grip him like he’s a lifeline.
Because right now, he’s all I have.