Chapter 21 Sima
SIMA
After dinner, Petyr takes me to his penthouse.
He leads me into a snazzy skyscraper. I’ve never been in one quite like this, but fantasies are free, and I’ve often wondered how it would be to see the world from here. To come back home to this.
Turns out, it’s even more unbelievable than I thought.
The elevator doors open straight into the penthouse. My jaw drops hard. “You live here?”
I wander into the space with my eyes peeled. The interiors are essentially decorated, modern to the bone. I walk past a sleek leather sectional, a gleaming coffee table, heaps of abstract paintings with vaguely threatening auras.
“I live at the mansion,” Petyr says, like I’ve suddenly turned stupid. “You’ve been there.”
“But I mean, like, you own this, too?” I sweep a hand at the stunning windowed walls at the other end of the apartment. “Like, it’s yours?”
“Yes. Feel free to pocket an ashtray.”
I should be insulted, but honestly? I’m tempted. Real fucking tempted. I could fund my apartment rent for years just by pawning a single one of those claw-footed lamps.
I trail behind him in the kitchen, still basking in the clean lines of the place, the warm glow of recessed light bouncing off polished floors. There’s a glass bar stocked with liquor I can’t pronounce, and the air smells faintly of pine.
And winter snow. His scent.
A thought surprises me right then: This apartment, with its airy atmosphere and lighter looks, feels much more like him than that crypt of a mansion he brought me to. That house—it feels like a tomb, all dark wood and velvet coverings.
But this place… It just fits him better. Feels more like something he’d choose for himself. Less of a museum, more of a home.
“Maybe I will steal an ashtray,” I decide, poking my hand into the liquor cabinet and plucking an expensive-looking bottle. “And this. Whatever it is.”
“It’s whiskey.” He swipes it back in one smooth move. “And in case you forgot, we’re trying to get you pregnant.”
Petyr’s tone sours my enthusiasm. Ever since dinner, he’s been quiet. As in, quieter than usual. Whenever he speaks to me, it’s with cold, testy sentences. Nothing like the heated banter we had back at the mansion.
I wonder if it has anything to do with Serge Markov.
Cold sweat breaks out on my back. Serge is an old friend of my father. He used to come around the house a lot when I was little. Sneak me candy when Papa wasn’t looking.
It’s been twelve years. I doubt he remembers me enough to recognize me, especially on Petyr’s arm, as his wife.
But what if he did recognize me? What if he texted Petyr something midway through dinner? That would explain his shift in attitude.
No. If Serge had told Petyr who you were, he wouldn’t have let you eat caviar. He’d have taken you out the back and fed you a bullet instead.
Still, I can’t chase away the unease.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, heart in my throat.
The cold gaze Petyr gives me could make snow fall in a desert. “Yes. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I don’t know. You just seem… different,” I say, folding my arms against myself. “Quieter. Since dinner.”
Since we met Serge, I think but don’t say.
Petyr’s eyes narrow slightly. I feel my pulse pick up. “Nothing’s wrong,” he says.
It sounds so final that I don’t have the courage to press for more. Instead, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “How do you know Serge?”
His eyes widen.
Shit. Never in the history of my short life has blurting out stuff ended well for me, but clearly, I haven’t learned that lesson yet.
“I mean,” I try to recover, “that man you were speaking with at the restaurant. Was it Serge? Or Sergio or something?”
“Serge.” His pose relaxes a fraction. “He’s someone in my world. We have a cordial business relationship.”
“Your world, as in… the Bratva world?”
“There is no other world for me.”
“Okay. Yeah. Sure.”
“Why do you ask?” he says, surprising me. “Do you know him?”
“Um, nope.” I pray to God he doesn’t smell the lie. “Just curious about your life, that’s all.”
He studies me for a beat longer. He doesn’t look too pleased, but I can’t for the life of me figure out why. Then he turns brusquely away, and I feel that the subject is officially closed.
I wring my hands in my lap, wondering what’s next. If tonight is the night that we…
His hands, roaming over me. His breath, ghosting over my skin. His body, pressing into mine, thrusting with no restraint, filling—
“I have to deal with something from work.” Petyr’s words shatter that illusion instantly. “You’ll spend the night here.”
“Oh,” I say. “Alright. Should I wait up, or—?”
“No.” He grabs his jacket, fixes his cufflinks. “Stay here. Sleep. And don’t try to run.”
“I wasn’t gonna,” I mumble.
“And just in case you change your mind, there’s a guard at the door. So I’d think twice about trying anything.”
I want to cringe. Since when have we stopped being partners in this and gone back to being jailer and prisoner?
I press my lips into a tight line. “Right. Of course.”
With a last glacial once-over, he steps out the door.
Then I’m alone.
I look around the penthouse. There are all kinds of supplies, from knives to rope to a stack of getaway cash stuffed at the bottom of a drawer.
If I wanted to leave, it couldn’t be easier than tonight. Guard at my door or not, I’m back in familiar territory now. I have access to a landline. I could call Jemma to come pick me up, set off the smoke detector to create chaos, and slip away unnoticed. Call the cops, even.
The realization that I’m not gonna do any of that slams into me harder than it has any right to.
What the hell am I doing?
I plunge my face into my hands. I’m not supposed to grow complacent. I’m supposed to wait for my window of opportunity—which, hello, here it is!—and get the fuck out of here.
But Petyr’s deal is too sweet to turn down. And aside from that…
I’m worried.
Petyr is dealing with a lot right now. His father’s death, his brother’s coma—do I really want to add “runaway bride” to the list?
Why do you care?
I don’t know how to answer that.
I just know that, for some inexplicable reason, I do.