Chapter 33 Bella
BELLA
The French countryside is beautiful as we drive through it in silence.
Late afternoon sunlight melts over the countryside in golden rays. In the distant hills, wildflowers blush pink and yellow in the breeze. A river winds under the hazy summery sky, and its dappling waters shimmer like diamonds.
But I’m not processing any of it.
Not when Slava is holding my hand.
His fingers thread through mine, and his palm is warm and dry. I’m no longer shying away from his presence, and our thighs are touching. The contact hasn’t broken since we landed in Nice a little over two hours ago and got in the car.
It’s almost terrifying how normal this all feels when normal is the last word I’d ever use to describe this.
Truthfully, I still don’t know what we are now.
His thumb traces a small circle on the back of my hand. The movement is unconscious. I look over at him and find him staring out the window. His jaw is tight, and those winter-gray eyes are fixed on the landscape with an intensity that suggests he’s not looking at anything in particular.
“You haven’t told me what this is about,” I say quietly.
“I know.”
“Is that your way of telling me that I’ll find out soon?” I ask.
The corner of his mouth twitches as his gaze drops to our joined hands. “It is.”
The car starts to slow, and soon, we’re turning off the main road. The countryside starts to transform until it becomes something else entirely. High hedgerows rise up in the distance, and soon, we’re driving through them, and it feels like a set of high green walls are closing in all around us.
I try to peer through the hedgerows, but the branches are so thick that I can’t see anything. Even the sunlight has a hard time penetrating them. Wherever we’re going, it’s not meant to be seen.
Finally, we make yet another turn and arrive at a large gate. A masked man with a heavy rifle slung over his shoulder walks up to us, and my hand tightens instinctively in Slava’s.
He gives me a soft squeeze. “These are my men.”
That doesn’t make me feel any better. This level of security means whatever’s behind these hedgerows is worth dying over.
Or worth killing for.
The gates swing open, and then we drive on. Hedgerows make way into open sky, revealing beautifully manicured grounds. Across the grounds are more men toting rifles.
Angling my neck, I spot a chateau in the distance, growing larger as we approach.
It’s old in a way buildings in America can never be— hundreds of years of history carved into stone with towers and turrets stabbing into the sky. It’s the kind of place that has survived wars and revolutions and the crushing weight of time.
It’s simultaneously ostentatious and overwhelming, but also carries an air of intimate quaintness.
The car drives up to the front door, and Slava’s hand tightens on mine for a moment and then releases as he steps out.
A broad-chested man in his fifties is waiting for us at the entrance. His silver hair is neatly combed back and his posture is straight as a pencil. He gives me a quick sharp glance, as if to assess any threats that I might pose, before he nods at Slava.
“Slava Danilovich.” His accent is French, but he uses Slava’s patronymic just like Ludmilla had.
“Monsieur Lavoisier.” Slava nods back, and then gestures at me. “This is my PR agent, Ms. Bella Creminelli.”
“Pleasure.” Lavoisier grunts. If he had any additional questions for why Slava might need to bring his PR agent here, he has enough professionalism to neither ask nor react.
“Where is he?” Slava asks Lavoisier now that introductions are done. “Is he alright?”
Nothing can hide the anxiety in his voice. But my attention is fixed on that single word carrying more raw emotion than I’ve ever heard from Slava Romanov.
He.
“He’s fine.” Lavoisier answers. “A bit shaken from the circumstances, but physically unharmed. I had him brought here.”
Relief passes through Slava. His shoulders drop a fraction of an inch, and the knot in his jaw loosens. And as I watch the tension ebb out of him, something twists in my chest.
“However, there is also our primary concern,” Lavoisier continues. “L’Ecole Beaumont-sur-Loire has maintained its reputation for nearly four hundred years. The security of our grounds is the foundation of that reputation.”
I know what he’s saying. They’re worried about their reputation. Whatever happened must’ve been serious and they’re scared.
I guess that’s why Lavoisier didn’t react when he learned I’m Slava’s PR agent.
“I want to see him.” Slava holds up a hand as Lavoisier continues to blather about security.
I fall into step behind them, mind racing through the puzzle pieces that still don’t fit any pattern yet. A chateau in southern France. A private army. A mysterious institution with four hundred years of history.
And a “he” that makes the most controlled man I’ve ever met visibly afraid.
We pass through an entrance hall, and then—
“Papa!”
A little boy of about seven with dirty blond hair comes barreling toward Slava with the pure, uncomplicated velocity of a child who has been waiting for his father and cannot contain his joy for one more second.
“Alessandro!” Slava catches him and lifts him up in the air.
The boy wraps his arms around Slava’s neck, chattering in Russian, and Slava responds in kind. I don’t need to understand a single word to recognize the relief and joy in both their voices.
WHAT?
Papa. Alessandro.
The air leaves my lungs in a single rush, and I can’t pull it back in.
A list of Italian names in a woman’s handwriting and only a single one is circled.
That wasn’t a hit list at all.
It was a list of baby names!
After a few more minutes, Slava sets Alessandro down, ruffles the hair on the boy’s head, and speaks.
“I need to speak with Monsieur Lavoisier for a while,” Slava switches to English now for my benefit. “But after we can play. Would you like that?”
“Yes!” Alessandro beams. “How long will you be staying?”
“As long as you need me to, malchik.”
Alessandro wraps Slava in a bear hug before he turns to me. Then, with the solemn politeness of someone who has been taught proper manners, he greets me.
“Good afternoon,” he says. “I’m Alessandro Romanov.”
“Hello, Alessandro.” My voice sounds like it’s coming from a million miles away. “I’m Bella. It’s nice to meet you.”
He has his father’s smile. It radiates innocence and trust that the world is still filled with mostly good people. Then, he says something to his father in Russian, receives a response in kind, and rushes off toward a hallway on the left.
I watch him go, and it’s a miracle I’m still standing on my two feet. Because my soul is falling through the floor towards hell.
I’m the reason why we’re here. I sent that list to Nico because I was jealous of… what? A woman whose only sin was daring to dream about a future with Slava and the son they made together?
Was I really so jealous and possessive about a man that I was never even supposed to care about, much less feel any ownership for, that I handed his most protected secret to the son of his most dangerous enemy?
And in doing so, do the most unforgivable thing in the world?
I can’t even argue that I didn’t know any better. Because everything that I did, I did out of my own volition. I can’t even blame it on Nico because he fucking told me that whatever I was going to find in Slava’s penthouse was precious.
The dread in my stomach has become something real. It has a shape now. A face. A name.
“Bella.”
Slava’s voice pulls me back out of my spiral. He’s watching me with concern in his eyes. Or is it curiosity at why I’m still rooted to the spot in shock?
I can’t let him find out about what I’ve done, I realize. I can’t let him know that it was me.
Except I know he will.
All he has to do is go back to New York, unlock that safe under his desk, and he’ll find exactly how I broke inside, stole its secrets, and betrayed him in every way that a man can be betrayed.
If you ever betray me, malyshka. Then you’ll wish you were still my enemy.
I force myself to smile at him, because that’s the only thing I can do now that I’m standing in the wreckage of my own catastrophic decisions. I smile, and I pretend like the world isn’t on fire.
Like I wasn’t the one who fucking started it.
“He’s beautiful.”
And I mean it. Alessandro is beautiful. He has Slava’s features, but there’s also an unmistakable hint of Italian to him.
“He takes after his mother.”
Is that whose clothes I’m wearing? The perfume clinging to my clothes has grown less overwhelming. But now, I can practically feel Alessandro’s mother’s presence in this room with me. I can hear the angry ghost of her words snarling at my ear.
Dirty little sneak! How dare you! How could you!
And with every imagined curse, her perfume wraps around my throat, choking the life out of me.
I’m sorry, I want to sob and beg her forgiveness. I didn’t know!
But instead, all I do is continue smiling at Slava. “I didn’t know you had a son.”
Pain flickers across Slava’s face, and I recognize the shadow of a story he hasn’t told me yet.
“Very few people do.”
The implication couldn’t be clearer. He trusts me enough to let me glimpse this single most terrible truth he’s hidden from the world.
And I’ve already betrayed him.