Chapter 16
“We landed an hour ago,” Alexander tells me over the phone while I climb the steps to my townhouse. “Family dinner tomorrow night.”
“I’m not sure we can make it.”
“You hightailed it out of New York before dessert was finished at your own fucking wedding. You’ll be there tomorrow, or we’ll show up on your doorstep.”
“You know, you’re getting grouchier with your old age. I think Megan should consider having you put in a home.”
“You’re funny. Very fucking funny.” Alexander practically snarls.
“He’s not wrong. You’re really grouchy today.” Megan’s voice comes through the phone. I can picture the face he’s making, probably trying not to pull his own hair out.
She laughs. “Come tomorrow, Kaz. We want to get to know your captive bride.”
“Don’t call her that.” I grit my teeth, standing on the front stoop of the townhouse.
I haven’t heard from my bride all day. I called, twice, no answer. Each of my four text messages went unread. If she’s trying to prove a point, that she doesn’t need or want me in her life, she’s going about it the wrong way.
Ignoring me only makes me want to get in her face even more.
And between her thighs.
“That’s what she is. It’s what you Volkov men do, you drag the woman to the altar and make her promise her life away. And in your case, you humiliate her to get the same result. I’m surprised, actually, that she hasn’t killed you yet.”
“Megan.” I steady my voice.
“Yeah?”
“Let me talk to Alexander alone please.” I push the door open and walk into the blessed heat of home.
The wind is fierce today, making it feel ten degrees colder than it probably is.
“I’m back. Sorry about her. The girls are actually a little pissed at you about those vows.”
“You weren’t all that kind to Megan at your wedding, either,” I remind him.
“Let’s not compare who’s the bigger asshole here.
I feel like it’s going to be a tie.” He covers the phone and says something to his wife and Vee before getting back to me.
“The sooner we land the better. I think Ivan is going to have a ruptured vein soon with these two. Not to mention Mira and Maxine.”
“Then I’ll let you go.” More than happy to, actually. My day hasn’t gone anything like I wanted.
And it’s all because of fucking Sienna.
I can’t get the woman out of my mind for more than two minutes before she saunters right back into it with those doe eyes of hers. The zoning commissioner I met this morning prattled on for ten minutes, but all I could hear was Sienna begging me to let her come over and over again.
“Tomorrow night.”
“Fine.” I end the call, drop my coat onto a hook and go in search of my wife.
I can’t let her get away with ignoring me all day. There has to be some consequence for it. Maybe I’ll make her kneel next my chair while I eat dinner. She can give me her full attention as penance.
I’ll be nice, though.
I’ll feed her from my plate. She can take little bits of food from my hand while she’s on her knees.
Naked?
My dick hardens at the thought. Then the image makes my balls pull tight, too.
I shove through the kitchen door, thinking to find her helping with dinner. But Mrs. Popova is alone, stirring a large, steaming pot with a wooden spoon.
“Where’s Sienna?” I must ask with more force than I intended, because I’m answered with a scowl.
“Hello to you, too.” She taps the spoon on the edge of the pot before placing it on the ladle holder and turns around. “Mrs. Volkov isn’t here at the moment.”
It sounds odd, hearing her called by her married name. Mrs. Volkov. I’d never taken the time to imagine what it would sound like, my wife being called that name. Mostly because I never intended to have a wife, not until this mess with Sienna’s family.
“Do you know where she is?” I ask, leveling my tone.
Mrs. Popova has worked for me for nine years. She was the first hire I made when I moved into my own home.
She reminded me of everything my own mother wasn’t. It had been an easy decision. But the way she’s scowling at me now makes me wonder if I’d been wrong. Her loyalty seems to be wavering.
“Kaz.” Sergei walks into the kitchen. “You’re home.”
I glare at him. “Yes. I am. But it seems my wife isn’t.”
He nods. “Yeah, she went out about two hours ago.”
“And you didn’t drive her?” I take a step toward him. It seems everyone around here needs to have a lesson in loyalty.
“She said you told her to take the car.” He puts his hands up, backing up a step.
“Why would I tell her to take a car?”
“I don’t know, but that’s what she said.”
“And you didn’t call me to check?”
“Why would he do such a thing? Your wife, the woman of this house, told him she was told to use a car. Her word is as good as yours, no?” Mrs. Popova interjects.
When I flash her a devil’s glare she merely raises her brows at me.
“Which car did she take?” I focus on Sergei as I head for the front door.
“The Bentley,” he tells me. “There’s a tracker on the GPS in that one, we can pull up the location. You need me to come with?”
I snatch my coat from the hook and yank the front door open.
“No, Sergei. What I needed was for you to keep an eye on my wife. What I needed, was for you not to let her steal one of my cars after I gave an order that she was to be driven anywhere she wanted to go.”
He pulls up straight. Worry crosses his features. And he should be concerned, because if something’s happened to her, if one little scratch is on her anywhere, I will hold him responsible.
“Keep your phone on you.” As I open the front door, Mikhail, is walking up the stairs. “We need to go.”
He drops his shoulders, but says nothing, turning around and jogging past me to the driveway where he parked the car.
I pull up the location tracker on the car and give Mikhail the address. It’s a large building in the middle of a residential subdivision on the Northside of the city. With the early evening traffic it takes us thirty minutes to get there.
The car hasn’t moved, so I assume my disobedient, strong headed, wife is still there.
When Mikhail pulls up to the address it’s a house. Just a house. No long driveway, no iron gate around it. Nothing that suggests there’s any sort of security personal around it.
It can’t be one of the DeAngelo strongholds. They wouldn’t leave it unprotected like this. And it’s definitely not one of their pleasure houses. Not in the middle of a residential area. Too many possible witnesses.
“You want backup?” Mikhail asks when I reach for the doorhandles.
“No. It doesn’t look like it’s one of the DeAngelo houses. I doubt there’s any trouble inside.”
“I was talking about for your wife,” he says, and when I look back at him over my shoulder the bastard is grinning.
I slam the door on him and stalk up to the house.
The doorbell chimes, and there’s a flicker of a light through the side door glass panel.
When the door opens a minute later, a woman standing as tall as myself with her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail stares at me.
“Can I help you?” She puts her hands on her hips, leaning a bit to the side to look at the black SUV idling in front of the house.
“I’m looking for Sienna Volkov.” I announce.
Her eyes narrow. “Sienna?”
“Yes.” I reach for the door handle of the glass storm door, but she grabs it from her side, flicking the lock before I can turn the knob. “She’s my wife.”
She gives me a onceover, slow and deliberate. This woman is full of suspicion and caution.
“One second.” She shuts the door, and I’m left standing on the porch like a fucking beggar.
I’m about to ring the bell a second time when it opens again, and Sienna stands on the other side of the storm door. She’s wearing a pair of skinny dark blue jeans and a green knit sweater. The blandest outfit imaginable, but on her it’s breathtaking.
The sweater hugs her hips, and her jeans accentuate the curve of her thighs. I bite back a groan when I notice how the gentle swell of her breasts shows even with the high neckline.
This is insane. She’s covered from head to toe and still my cock springs to life for her.
“What are you doing here?” she asks through the glass.
“I was about to ask you the same thing.” I grab the doorknob. “Open the door, Sienna.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s cold out here, and I’m coming inside.” I lean closer to the glass. “Do I need to break down the door?”
She rolls her eyes and heaves a sigh. “Do you need to go straight for violence?”
As soon as she unlocks the door, I yank it open and step inside. She has to move further into the entrance way to give me room.
It’s as normal inside as it is outside. The entranceway flows into a longer hallway that seems to lead to a kitchen in the back of the house.
A short set of stairs just before the end of the hall goes down into what I assume is a sub-basement.
A living room flows off to my left, and another short hallway veers off to my right. I assume it leads to the garage.
“What are you doing here, Sienna? What is this place?” I demand, still taking stock of my surroundings.
It’s cozy. Much like the DeAngelo house in New York. Soft coloring, warm ambiance. A place someone would feel at ease.
Before she can answer, a young boy around five or six runs from the living room with a foam dart gun in his right hand and jumps into the entrance way, pointing it at Sienna. She realizes it too late and gets pelted in the chest with a foam bullet.
Only after he’s shot her, does he seem to realize I’m there.
The color drains from his face as he lifts his eyes up to me.
I stand over six feet tall in black combat boots, black jeans, a button down dark gray shirt, and a dark gray wool overcoat.
My neck tattoos are on display, and the ink on my hands isn’t doing anything to soften my appearance.
“Hey.” I put a hand out to show him I don’t have anything to harm him, but he jumps back like I was going to strike him.
Sienna touches his shoulder and turns him toward her. Then she starts moving her hands between them. It takes a second, but then I realize she’s signing to him.
He nods, swallows hard, then responds to her before turning to glance up at me again. She makes a few more hand signals then he turns and runs to the back of the hall and down the set of stairs.
All the while they were having their conversation, something struck me. He has the same dark hair as her. Same sharp-edged jawline. Same eyes.
“Was that your son?” Any attempt to keep my tone civil flies away as the realization comes over me.
She stands up straight, rolls her shoulders back and crosses her arms across her chest.
“Well, is he?”
She drops her hands to her sides. “You’re an idiot.”