4. Sabina
4
Sabina
Roberto and I had planned to meet up in New York for the weekend. I’d booked the flights and the hotel, reserved the restaurants…done all the work. And of course, paid for everything, just like I’ve paid for almost everything since the day we met. I hadn’t minded paying because I understand that not everyone has my financial privilege and student loans are a bitch.
But for the past two days, since my dinner with Nadia, I’ve spent every waking hour in my suite at the Aman thinking, seeing the past three years without the layers of camouflage I always chose to drape them in. Roberto has never cooked dinner for me, never suggested a restaurant or stage play just because he knew it was something I would enjoy, never picked a wildflower for me, never kissed me in the rain, never laughed with me until we cried. Those things cost nothing.
So I’d reached a revelation this morning, while I stared out at the cold and beautiful snow-covered expanse of Central Park: I love New York in December.
What I do not love is Roberto. And I will not spend my life with him.
Everything Nadia said is true. I deserve better. And with newfound clarity, I see that my fiancé not only does not love me, but he has lied about so many things.
Currently, Roberto is standing three feet away from me, staring at a gigantic painting at MoMA that consists of a white square and a black square. He’s dressed in a too-shiny navy suit that looks like it was plucked off the rack at a mid-tier department store and tailored just enough to pass as expensive at first glance. The fabric catches the museum lighting, giving it a cheap, almost plastic sheen. His tie—a garish paisley pattern—is tied just a bit too short, leaving the end sitting awkwardly above his belt buckle. His white shirt is crisp but unremarkable, the kind of off-the-shelf brand that wrinkles easily by the end of the day.
On his feet are scuffed brown loafers. The soles are slightly worn, and the leather is dull, as if he doesn’t bother to polish them. On his wrist, he wears a chunky gold watch, oversized and gaudy, the kind that screams “look at me” while simultaneously revealing that it’s all for show.
Altogether, he looks like someone trying too hard to project wealth and confidence, yet utterly failing to grasp that true elegance lies in subtlety.
“What do you suppose it means?” he muses, as if to himself as he stares at the painting.
“Opposites attract,” I tell him. “Black and white, complete opposites. Sharing the same space but not overlapping except for the corners. See? That little gray bit there?”
“Huh,” he says and makes a face.
Not everyone is a modern art fan.
“I guess it’s like us, isn’t it?” Robert says. “We’re opposites in a lot of ways.”
“We are,” I agree.
He gets that smug little smile, the one he wears whenever I agree with him. I know it well. Just like I know the narrow-eyed glare he wears when I disagree, the one that makes him look like a petulant child. He’s going to be wearing that glare in a matter of moments.
The museum is quiet for a Friday night, but that’s probably because of the weather forecast that calls for a big snowstorm to hit the east coast later tonight. I’m not too concerned. I have a car at the ready to pick me up and take me back to the hotel. There, I can hunker down in comfort for the rest of the weekend. I’m scheduled to head back to Vegas on Monday. I’ve switched Roberto’s return flight to late tonight. He won’t be joining me at the hotel, though I had originally booked an adjoining suite for him. He won’t be joining me ever again.
Roberto moves on to the next painting. This one is a bright red circle with flecks of orange and a solid black center. I see it as a blazing star starting to collapse on itself.
Or…maybe it’s an angry eyeball. I don’t know.
Nadia’s the art expert, not me. I’m just an art buyer and enthusiast. I know what I like, and I hate empty walls.
What I do well is plan parties. Charity events. I majored in Business in college and am fantastic at delegating. I like to think of myself as the director and producer of these events who relies on the help of a great team to pull everything together. The next event is on New Year’s Eve, a huge gala with a massive guestlist featuring a charity auction with proceeds benefiting a new animal rescue in Las Vegas.
Nadia will be there, as my guest. Roberto won’t be.
Both the gala and the animal rescue are for Nicole, my brother Leo’s fiancée. She loves cats almost as much as she loves my brother. And she’s also a gifted executive assistant who is handling most of the organizing without a word of complaint, which has allowed me to take this quick trip to the other side of the country.
Nicole still sends me at least a dozen messages a day to get my opinion or sign-off, but I know everything will come off without a hitch.
“Rob,” I say. “Can we talk?”
He tears his gaze away from the red eyeball and glances at me. “Sure.” Maybe he heard something in my voice that has sent a look of concern through his expression. “Something wrong?”
I twist the ring on my finger. My engagement ring.
Rob had proposed months ago, over dinner on my birthday. The ring had been at the bottom of my glass of Cristal. He’d gotten down on one knee and I remember feeling embarrassed and asking him to sit down, so flustered that I’d quickly said yes, and the entire restaurant burst into applause.
I know it’s the dream of so many girls, to be proposed to by a handsome man with a nice ring. With witnesses to help celebrate the happy couple.
But that wasn’t my dream and if Roberto had known me at all, he would have planned a quiet, intimate proposal, just the two of us.
Two days locked in my suite, thinking back on my years with Roberto had made me see things so clearly.
Roberto and I had been on again, off again for a reason. His roving eye always found someone else to land on, some fleeting distraction that he couldn’t resist. Each time, he’d break up with me, pointing the finger my way, blaming me for being too busy, too guarded, too something. And then, inevitably, he’d come back, apologies dripping with charm, claiming he’d made a mistake, that I was the only one he ever wanted.
After my father died, when I was drowning in grief and desperate for stability, he proposed. I’d tried to convince myself it was love—that he finally saw me, wanted to be there for me. I’d ignored the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Pushed it away, telling myself it was only nerves. That I was young, younger than I ever planned to marry, but my mother had only been twenty-three when she married Papa. And she’d looked happy—so very happy—in their wedding photos.
I told myself I could be that happy with Roberto.
That if Papa had given his blessing, then he’d seen something in Rob. Something special.
Something safe.
Because Papa wanted me safe. He knew the nightmare that haunted me, the memory of that night three years ago. If he accepted Rob, then it was because he thought he was what was best for me.
But what if Nadia was right? What if Papa never thought anything of the sort?
What if Rob had just taken advantage of an opportunity to attach himself to the Russo name and fortune when I was too broken to see the truth?
“You know, I never really asked you for a lot of details about your talk with my father,” I say. “But as the time has gone by, I really want to know. I miss him, you know. The world feels so much emptier without Papa in it.”
“I guess it’s painful for you,” Rob says.
You guess?
“Such a violent end to a…a man who…um, was your father,” he says. That’s all he can think of to say about my father? He must see the incredulity and offense in my expression because he hastens to add, “I know you saw him as a great man.”
“You know that, do you?” I ask, keeping my voice sweet and soft.
My father was a great man. A wonderful father. He was also the ruthless boss of a rich and powerful crime family.
Some painted him to be a villain. The bad guy. A murderer and thief, who headed an organization of murderers and thieves. That the Russo fortune had been built on a mountain of blood and death. And none of that is a lie.
Maybe some would think me a disgusting human being, but I am not ashamed of who I am. I am not ashamed of my family.
Even though I stay out of my family’s business, occupying myself with my own interests, I’m not blind. I know our hands aren’t clean. But no one’s hands are clean if you look close enough.
It’s just business. And I know my family is made up of good people who love deeply, are fiercely loyal and devoted to the end. This is my life, and I wouldn’t want it any other way, even though there is undeniable risk involved being a part of this world.
If you cross a Russo, if you hurt one of us, you don’t walk away unscathed.
And if you lie to a Russo, you better be damn sure that lie isn’t discovered.
“Tell me exactly what Papa said when you asked his permission to marry me,” I say, casually, as if we’re discussing the weather.
Roberto clears his throat. “It’s been a while. I don’t totally remember every word.”
“Then paraphrase it for me.” I flick my gaze to his, holding it. “Did you meet him in his office on the main floor at the estate, overlooking the front gardens? The one with all the bookcases?”
“Uh…yeah,” Rob says, nodding. “Yeah. In the office. It’s an impressive space. So many books…I sat across from his desk. He shook my hand. I explained to him that we’d been dating, and that we were…uh…that we like each other…” He clears his throat again, like the words are caught in his vocal cords. It hits me then that he’s never really told me he loves me. Not even when he proposed. I wait, saying nothing, and he continues. “… and how I saw a future together. That I wanted to show him the respect he deserved by stating my intentions. He heard me out and”—he shrugs—“he said that I would make a very good husband for you.”
I smile and touch his arm. “I can’t believe we haven’t talked about this before now.”
“I didn’t want to remind you of…what happened.”
“No. Of course not.”
“Is this…” Rob begins, his voice uneasy as he takes in my expression. I can only imagine how murderous I must look. “Is this about the wedding?”
“Absolutely.” The wedding that will never happen.
He nods, but still eyes me warily. “I know we haven’t discussed the possibility of a pre-nup agreement…”
My eyebrows rise. “A pre-nup?”
As if he has any assets to protect. Does he really think I didn’t have his financial status thoroughly examined? Does he really think I don’t know exactly what he is—or isn’t—worth?
It hits me then. Yes, he really thinks that. I have allowed him to see the Sabina he wanted to see, one who defers to him, who acts the part he wants me to act. No wonder Nadia is so concerned.
“Yeah…so, about that pre-nup… I don’t think one is necessary,” he says. “A complication that neither of us wants or needs. We have a connection, you and me, Sabina. One that won’t be broken. Until death do us part.”
Nadia’s the one who claims to be psychic, but I don’t need any special gifts to read Roberto’s mind. No pre-nup? It’s difficult to hide the disgust rolling through me. I’d been blinded by believing—or wanting to believe—that it was my father’s last wish for me to marry Roberto. A safe banker who doesn’t put his life on the line daily, who won’t get shot or stabbed. A safe banker who lies smoother than silk. I’m embarrassed that it’s taken me this long to acknowledge it for myself.
“If we were going to marry,” I say, “there would be a pre-nup. A very tight one to protect my assets—”
“I—”
He tries to cut me off, but I talk over him, saying, “But, you’re right. There is no need for a pre-nup. Because I am putting an end to this. Tonight.”
He blinks. “Excuse me?”
“I’m ending our engagement. And our relationship. Here…” I take the ring off my finger and hand it to him. He stares down at the two-carat ring in the palm of his hand and says nothing.
I choose not to share that I’d had it appraised for insurance purposes and found it to be a cubic zirconia worth about fifty dollars. The band is gold-plated. To be honest, it hadn’t bothered me. It’s still a pretty ring. At first glance, no one would ever know the difference. It was the thought that counted to me.
“Why?” he finally says, his voice choked.
“Papa didn’t like bringing business home with him. He didn’t have an office on the main floor. Leo added one after my father died. And it isn’t at the front of the house, it’s at the back,” I tell him. “The only bookcases in the house are in the library. So. You didn’t meet with him. You made that up to get me to say yes. Because…” I hold up my index finger to stop him from trying to cut in. “And I’m guessing here…because you’re broke. Maybe even deeply in debt from school, gambling. Whatever.” Which would make the purchase of a fake ring make a lot of sense. “You came home with me that Christmas and saw my family’s wealth. Then my father was murdered and you jumped on the opportunity that presented. And I almost went along with it, but…” My words trail away as I remember what Nadia said about passion, and unbidden the memory of that Halloween kiss flits through my thoughts. I push it away and say, “I’m just not in love with you.”
I feel no emotion. No passion. No regret. I’m simply stating a fact. I feel distant from this conversation. It’s already over for me and I feel nothing but…a sense of relief.
Roberto continues to stare down at the ring in his hand and then he raises his gaze to mine. I don’t see pain there; I see outrage. And maybe a flicker of panic.
“You fucking bitch,” he snarls. “You fucking, selfish little princess. You think you’re so fucking smart? You think I don’t know what you are?”
His hand moves as if to grab me by my throat, but I block him, draw my knee up sharply between his legs, and make contact. Just one more way he’s underestimated me. Does he think my father didn’t make certain I knew how to defend myself, throw a punch, shoot a gun, use a knife?
He doubles over in pain, groaning.
“Thank you for making this easier for me,” I tell him. “If I hear from you again, for any reason, I’ll tell my brothers about your lies and, trust me, you really don’t want that. Otherwise, I’ll tell them that we mutually parted ways.” I grasp his chin and pull it up so we’re making eye contact again. “By the way, I’m not a virgin. I just wasn’t into you.”
Time to go. I turn and walk away, my heels clicking against the museum’s floor. I pull my phone from my mini Kelly and call my driver.
“I’m ready to go,” I tell him. “Please pull the car around. Thank you.”
When I exit the museum, it’s started to snow. Big white flakes are falling. I take a deep breath of the cold air and let it out slowly, watching the frozen puff. It’s freezing. I’m wearing a long cashmere coat, warm enough to hurry from the door of the museum to the car, but definitely not warm enough for a long walk. I wasn’t expecting the temperature to drop this quickly. When I left the hotel earlier, the sun was still up and it was several degrees warmer.
I feel…free. Freer than I have in a very long time. I gather that pleasant feeling around me like a fur-lined cloak.
The limo pulls up to the curb. The driver rounds the car and opens the door, and I slide in, phone in hand as I text Nadia.
"Roberto is officially history. Onward!"
Her reply is almost immediate: a shocked emoji followed by clinking champagne glasses. God, I love her.
I close my eyes as I settle back against the seat, finally letting out a long, relieved sigh. But something feels… off. The air carries a strange heaviness, the faint, unpleasant tang of leather and sweat. A prickle of unease crawls up my spine.
My eyelids pop open. The driver blocks the door and a glance reveals an unfamiliar face. This is not the man who brought me to the museum.
I start to slide across the seat, intent on reaching the other door, but there is a second man sitting at the far end of the opposite bench. He is hulking, his shaved head gleaming under the dim interior light. His face is rough, a jagged scar running along his jawline, and he’s smiling—but there’s no humor in it.
My heart lurches into my throat, and my fingers tighten around my phone.
“Evening, Miss Russo,” the bigger one says, his voice a low, gravelly growl. “You’re coming with us.”
“Excuse me?” I say, trying to keep my voice steady, but my pulse is thundering in my ears. Speed and surprise are my best weapons. I don’t squander them.
The driver’s bulk blocks my escape, his eyes gleaming with malice. Every instinct screams for me to move, to act, to do something before it’s too late. He bends slightly, about to close the door and trap me with the second man. Instinct takes over.
I shift in my seat, planting one hand against the center console for leverage, bracing myself with the other. My heart thunders as I lift my leg, the glossy black heel of my Louboutin catching the dim light for the briefest moment before I drive it down with every ounce of strength I have.
The sharp point slams into the driver’s knee, right at the joint. He lets out a guttural yell, his leg buckling as he staggers back, his imposing frame suddenly unsteady.
I shove past him, using his imbalance to slip free. The icy wind and swirling snow outside bite at my face. My pulse pounds, adrenaline flooding my veins. But just as I stumble forward, a hand clamps down on my wrist, jerking me back so hard I nearly lose my footing.
“Let go of me!” I snap, twisting violently. I slam the point of my heel down on the man’s instep, and he curses—but he doesn’t release me.
“Feisty,” he sneers, yanking me closer until I can smell his sour breath.
The bigger one is out of the car now. He steps forward, his massive bulk filling the narrow space between me and freedom. His gaze is flat, dead, like he’s already decided I’m not walking away tonight.
“Shut her up,” he growls, his voice like gravel.
Panic burns hot in my chest. Every instinct screams for me to fight. My pulse is a chaotic roar, drowning out reason. I thrash, kicking and clawing, my breaths coming in shallow bursts as I swing my purse at his face, the strap tangling around my wrist like a lifeline.
I sink my nails into the lean one’s hand, drawing blood, and he yelps, releasing me.
I spin, slamming into another man. I hadn’t realized there was a third person with them.
My head jerks back and I see his face.
“Nikolai,” I breathe, the name slipping out like a curse. My voice trembles, and I hate that it does.
He looks like something out of a nightmare—a beautiful, dangerous nightmare. His black coat whips in the icy wind, snowflakes clinging to the dark waves of his hair, and his piercing blue eyes glow with a deadly intensity that makes my heart lurch. For a brief moment, those eyes lock onto mine, and something in me steadies, though I don’t trust it.
Then his gaze shifts, landing on the men, and his expression hardens.
“Sabina,” he says, his voice low and smooth, yet brimming with menace. “Get behind me.”
It’s not a request. It’s a command, and everything in me bristles against it. Nikolai Ivanov is no one’s savior, least of all mine.
When I don’t move quickly enough to suit him, he gives me a little shove.
“Behind me. Now.”
I glare at him, defiance flaring even as logic wins out—prudence before pride. I slip behind him as he steps forward.
His presence fills the space like a thundercloud, oppressive and crackling with danger.
“What the fuck?” the lean one snarls, blood dripping from the claw marks I left on his hand.
“Walk away,” Nikolai says to the men.
“We’re were hired to do a job and we’re going to do it.”
“You will not touch this woman again. You will not even look at her,” Nikolai replies, his tone calm but with an edge that could cut steel. “I am changing the parameters of the job. If you want the second half of the payment, you will walk away.”
“You aren’t the one who hired us,” the larger man says, sounding sullen. “So we’re gonna follow the orders we were given.”
The lean one lunges first, but Nikolai moves like liquid shadow—fast, precise, deliberate. His fist crashes into the man’s jaw with a crack so sharp I feel it reverberate in my own chest.
The bigger one charges, his knife gleaming, but Nikolai sidesteps effortlessly, his coat whipping in the wind as he catches the man’s wrist mid-swing. The knife clatters to the ground. My pulse thunders in my ears as I watch Nikolai lean in close, his grip unyielding on the thug’s wrist. The man howls in pain, his knees buckling, but Nikolai doesn’t let go.
“You touch her again, and I’ll leave you in pieces,” he says, his voice low and venomous. He doesn’t shout threats. He delivers them like promises carved in stone.
I hate him. I hate the way he commands the scene, like he owns it.
Like he owns me.
The other man scrambles to his feet, clutching his jaw, and grabs his partner, dragging him away. They disappear into the swirling snow, leaving the hijacked limo behind and a trail of blood in their wake.
I’m shaking, adrenaline still coursing through me as I stare after them. The snow feels colder now, sharper against my exposed skin.
Nikolai turns to me, his chest heaving, his jaw tight. His blue eyes pierce through the storm, locking onto me with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, his eyes burning into mine.
I take a step back. He’s too overwhelming, too dangerous, too much. He is my enemy, my family’s enemy. And from the conversation I just overheard, these men are here because his family sent them.
So why did he stop them?
I draw my coat tighter around me. “I didn’t ask for your help.”
“You didn’t have to.” His smile is infuriating, all sharp edges and superiority. Like he’s daring me to challenge him.
I don’t back down.
“Should I thank you?” My voice is pure venom, my chin lifting even as the adrenaline wanes. “Given that those were Ivanov men?”
“Not Ivanov men. Outside hires.” His expression hardens. “You should be more careful,” he says, his tone soft but cutting. “Men like that don’t wait for permission.”
“And men like you?” I counter, lifting my chin even as my pulse spikes. “Should I be afraid of you too?”
The look he gives me sends a shiver down my spine.
“Always,” he murmurs, the word a dark caress.
And in that moment, with the snow swirling and his blue eyes holding mine, I realize that Nikolai Ivanov is the kind of man who never stops being dangerous. Not to the men he just drove away. Not to my family. And not to me.