Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
Lucy
I was lying in bed weighing my options. Since I didn’t have a phone or a surface to write on, the ceiling became my mental canvas.
I’d done these exercises before. Besides, the shower invigorated me.
A night owl by design, I was going to crash later.
The bedroom Kirill put me in teemed with the dizzying opulence of five-star accommodations.
Plush, burgundy, embroidered curtains, drawn along the custom dark wood four-poster bed, served more as frill than function.
And I always appreciated diamond-tufted headboards set against a hand-carved frame. This one was tipped with gold.
The entire room screamed royalty and luxury. I didn’t doubt Kirill had put me in this room as a calculated move, although he of all people should know that I was no stranger to the lavish lifestyle.
So, the joke was on you, Kirill Zahkarov.
I listed my pros and cons.
Pros:
Avoid a war between the Italians and the Russians.
Put an end to my covenant with Marriage Ink, aka Margo Winthrop.
Investigate why Kolya is still in jail. Who knows, I might find a way to put Kirill away.
Mamma might be ecstatic. Although I wasn’t sure if that was a pro. If it would get her nagging off my back…definitely a pro.
Cons:
Marriage to an iceberg. Listen, as long as he forgets my existence, that might actually be a pro.
Marry into a family where every single member wants me dead for putting their precious Kolya in jail. In my defense, I had nothing directly to do with it. But my suspicion meter was high regarding why Kirill hadn’t gotten him out yet.
Dom and Luca would shit a brick, not to mention my entire family.
Despite my strong aversion to Kirill’s marriage proposal, it was looking more and more that an arranged marriage wasn’t the worst thing that could happen. Any reservations I had could be ironed out in the prenup.
I didn’t want to straight-out say he wasn’t my type because he would only take that as a challenge.
I had no desire to incite him further because, clearly, he was finding sadistic amusement in clashing with me.
I preferred dating green-flag, golden retriever men.
Men who weren’t selfish, who thought about the environment and justice for the weak.
The men in my family were so overbearing and frequently brought out the worst in me, I had no desire to be married to one. I could only take them in small doses. So it was good that Kirill had already said that this marriage was temporary.
Dad was an exception to the rule. He wasn’t bossy; he was protective. I moved back to New York, mostly for him, because after nearly losing him last year to one of the bratva’s rogue soldiers, it reiterated how life could be cut short in an instant.
Kirill was a newly minted pakhan. He had a lot to prove even when he was the heir apparent. He needed a wife to legitimize his reign. We could help each other even when we couldn’t stand each other.
Another pro: I could force him to set money aside for a charity toward a victims fund.
There was so much to process tonight, including how I was so numb to Viktor’s killing.
But my concern was always for the victims of mob violence.
Something Kirill said nagged at me. Putting the killing of Viktor on the troopers, would their families be at risk for retaliation?
A quick rap sounded on the door. Earlier, it was the maid who brought in a first aid kit. This rap was different. Not tentative but more authoritative.
Margo Winthrop was here.
I rolled off the bed to admit the matchmaker into the room. The same maid was standing behind her, holding a garment bag and an overnight one that screamed quiet luxury.
I raised a brow. “I don’t need a makeover.”
Margo eyed me from head to toe before sweeping into the room. “Are you okay?”
I reached for the items the maid was holding. “I've got it from here.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She curtsied and scurried away. So, the Zahkarovs were one of those archaic households.
Hmm, but she didn’t curtsy earlier. I turned to Margo. “Did you terrify the maid?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I simply told her not to gossip about anything here if she valued her job; and this isn’t a makeover.”
“What is this, then?” I dropped the oddly light bag on the floor and unzipped the garment bag to see an ivory sheath dress. “This is something I’d wear to Sunday breakfast at the Plaza.”
“Exactly,” Margo said. “And that overnight bag would announce to the press that your stay at Kirill’s house was planned.
It wasn’t a one-night stand. That you’ve been low-key seeing each other for a while.
Ideally, I would have shown you having brunch this morning, but even I know you might not have pulled it off at a short notice.
I’m sure I can say the same about Kirill. ”
“Do you know what happened last night?”
Something flickered in her eyes before she said, “Unfortunately.” She gave a tiny huff. “Yes, you killed Viktor. Yes, two state troopers are dead, and yes, as of this second, the press will’ve caught wind that there are ambulances in front of Bruce Davenport’s house.”
“And you think I can simply sit down to brunch and act like a couple with…with Kirill?” My voice pitched higher.
I thought I had come to grips with what had happened and the planned cover-up, but I was feeling extremely nauseated right now.
Anxiety I’d been suppressing since last night rushed up my throat.
I ran to the bathroom and emptied bile and tension into the toilet.
When I got up to rinse my mouth with a minty mouthwash, I saw the matchmaker’s expressionless face in the mirror.
Margo Winthrop was a fixer just like me, but she operated at a higher level.
The matchmaker role was passed down for generations, and with it, she held the secrets of the wealthy and powerful.
Secrets she wielded and used for blackmail to keep the peace.
From what I’d learned, she never used them to force alliances.
She didn’t need to. In a way, I admired her after she helped my brother win the woman he loved.
She wouldn’t admit it, but she might have a romantic bone in her body.
I spat out the mouthwash and nearly gagged out how absurd that sounded.
Marriage Ink, her full-service wedding business, should be renamed Marriage Inc.
Marriage was business, and scandals were buried.
I stared at her reflection in the mirror. “If I agree to this intent to marry, the first requirement is no retaliation against the troopers’ families.”
Surprise raised her brows. “I never considered that, but then again, I only understood the complete story a few minutes ago.”
I emitted an internal scoff, dried my face with a towel, and returned to the room. Trust Margo not to admit any oversight on her part.
“This is a cover-up. Viktor killed them, but why should the troopers’ families be held liable for what I did?”
“You don’t know if that’s going to happen.”
“Still, I want that in writing.”
“It might be out of Kirill’s hands. It’s Moscow who will want vengeance.”
“That’s not my problem, is it?”
“So you would sacrifice more lives just to save a few?”
“Yes.” I picked up the duffel to check its contents and so Margo wouldn’t see the tears springing to my eyes.
The agony that I might choose to condemn my family to a bloody war.
But they were the mafia. They chose a life of crime, and it had consequences.
“Because the troopers’ families are innocent.
Mine…I’ve been in lockdowns and I’ve had security details trail me before whenever a war was brewing. It’s an accepted way of life.”
“Why didn’t you have security last night?”
“A month ago, I made a deal with Dom.” I showed Margo the underside of my forearm. “I’d wear a tracker, but Viktor fried it.”
Margo walked to the secretary in the corner of the room, opened a folder, and scribbled something on it. “It’ll be an addendum. It only makes this contract more urgent.” She turned to face me. “Now let’s get you ready.”
Forty-five minutes later, a man who introduced himself as Sato escorted us to Kirill’s study. I didn’t pay attention to it earlier since my mind had been in a fog of whatever drug the fucker had injected me with. But my mind was clearer now.
Probably because of the aroma of freshly brewed coffee rising from the carafe on his massive dark wood desk.
I recognized OCD because it was the antithesis of the chaotic way I worked.
The neatly stacked binders at one end of the table made me want to claw at my bare arm.
Instead, I clasped my right arm and let my nails dig into skin before I gave in to the urge to sweep them across the desk.
My eyes wandered across the bookcases behind the desk—the books arranged by color and height.
My prospective husband stood at the far end of the room staring out the window.
He’d exchanged his all-black suit from last night for a dark gray one. When he turned, his hair still bore sleek remnants of a shower. There were telltale smudges under his eyes, but his drawn features belied the amusement curving his mouth. “Miss De Lucci, you look…nice.”
Margo gave a clucking sound of irritation. “It’s going to take a miracle to make you two even resemble a legitimate couple.”
“He can start by pouring us coffee,” I said pertly.
“Of course, moya milaya,” he drawled with a Russian word that sounded like an endearment and an insult at the same time. Kirill held my eyes briefly before he came unstuck from his position by the window and approached us. He stopped by the carafe to pour the steaming brew into a cup.
“Margo, I know you want yours black.” He handed her a porcelain cup etched with purple flowers and rimmed with antique gold.
“A touch of cream for me,” I said, relishing this bit of his servitude. “No sugar.”
After pouring mine and fixing it the way I wanted, he rounded the desk and stopped in front of me.