Chapter 15
CLARA
Déjà vu.
I’m standing outside of Dmitri’s penthouse suite in the same hotel again—the hotel that he apparently owns and lives in. Memories of that night rush back tenfold.
I raise my fist to knock, but Pavel, looming beside me, shakes his head.
“Go in, he knows you’re here.”
I watch the man for a moment, wondering what the hell his exact role is. He’s the one I called when Dmitri wouldn’t answer. He came and picked me up after I demanded he take me to see him.
Pavel jerks his head in the direction of the door and tells me, “I’ll drive you home when you’re done,” then turns back to the elevator.
I’m alone in front of this door again, although this time, I’m wearing a sweater and leggings, instead of the fantasy elf dress, my hair is in a messy bun, and I’m entirely sober and wishing I wasn’t.
Taking a deep breath, I place my hand on the doorknob and twist it. It opens to a familiar space with floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a breathtaking view of the glowing wonderland that is the Upper East Side of Manhattan.
The fire in the fireplace is the only light, throwing flickering shadows across the room. Dmitri sits on the couch that faces the wall of windows.
“Mr. Smirnov?” I don’t like the hesitancy in my tone, the way my heart is beating fast, or the way I’m rethinking this whole thing. But if Dmitri didn’t want me here, he wouldn’t have let Pavel bring me.
Right?
“I think we’re far past ‘Mr. Smirnov,’ Clara.” The words are accompanied by the clinking of ice in a glass. “I know what sounds you make when I’m fucking you against the wall.”
I cringe inwardly, but he has a point.
“Fine.”
My boots tap against the polished floor as I cross the room. When I pause, he waves me to sit down on the opposite couch. I do so, trying to evaluate the situation and the man sitting across from me.
Then there’s silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the occasional honk of a car on the street below. I watch Dmitri, drink in hand, arms resting on his thighs, dressed in slacks and a button-up.
Even in the ambient light from the fireplace, I can see that his eyes are bloodshot, and I wonder how long he’s been sitting here like this.
And how many glasses of whiskey he’s had.
“This must be odd for you, returning here.”
His words catch me off guard, more heavily accented than usual and slightly slurred.
“It’s a little strange, yeah.”
Dmitri tilts his glass, guiding the ice around the curves so that it chimes quietly. His eyes follow the path, and I can tell he is somewhere far away.
“Your arrival that night may have been a coincidence, but the door was unlocked for a reason. I had—” he clears his throat and gives a self-deprecating chuckle, “ordered some company for the evening. She never showed, but you did.”
Those blue eyes flick up to me with such intensity, I gasp.
“You walked into my penthouse.”
Something about the way he says “penthouse” makes me think he means “life.”
“And now you’re back again. Why? Pavel said you ‘demanded’ he bring you here.”
I take a deep breath because I honestly don’t know how this scene is going to play out. There are too many variables, and Dmitri is unpredictable. “I want to know what happened with Natasha Mikhailov in your office.”
“You were there; you know what happened. She presented a proposal, which I declined. I told her to get lost. That was it.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, I get that part. But you must think me stupid if you think I don’t know there’s more to it.”
“Oh, you are far, far from stupid.” The words are spoken softly, but there’s a sharp edge to them.
“Then tell me what else was going on there.”
He hums, telling me nothing, then goes silent again.
I watch the clouds outside sink lower, obscuring the tops of the buildings until they look like glowing lanterns.
Rain splatters against the windows, running in long rivulets down the glass and turning the view outside into a kaleidoscope of lights and colors.
I don’t know whether Dmitri will tell me anything, but I have to try. I can’t just let things go, not after my conversation with Andrey Mikhailov. Not when I’m carrying his child.
“What is it between you and the Mikhailovs?” I try again, half expecting Dmitri to ignore me.
“You’d like to know, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course. And if you don’t tell me, I’m walking out of here and never coming back. I deserve to know.”
“That’s debatable,” Dmitri muses but walks back the statement when I begin to rise, making good on my threat. “Sit down, Clara.”
“If you’re not going to tell me, I’m removing myself from this situation, and your life.”
“I said, sit down.”
I snap to that tone before I even know what I’m doing. “Talk to me that way again, and I walk.”
“You sound like her sometimes, you know that?”
“Like whom?” It’s an odd statement, and I have no idea who Dmitri is talking about. Natasha? I would hate to sound like that elitist socialite.
His wife.
The realization hits me half a heartbeat before he says it.
I’ve never heard him speak in such a tone before, one so desolate, reverential, broken. In that moment, Dmitri appears to be a different man, not a billionaire CEO, not the shadowed leader of the Russian mafia, with laundered money in his accounts and blood on his hands.
He is entirely human, the creases on his face molding his expression into that of a lonely, lost widower who misses someone he loved dearly. Who misses her company and mourns not only the woman, but the life they would have had together—the life that was stolen from them.
“Lauren.”
“Your wife’s name was Lauren?”
“She had dark hair like yours. A ball-buster of an ad executive, assigned to my company when it was still in its infancy. I was instantly smitten.”
I sure as hell hope he didn’t order her around like he tries to do with me.
His ice-blue eyes flick to me briefly, and I almost feel like he is reading my thoughts.
“It took me two years, but I finally wore her down.” He spits the words out like they have a bitter taste. “She was always too good for me. I should have let her go, chased her out of my shadows. But she made them recede, and I thought they wouldn’t touch her.”
I nearly swallow the words, but they’re begging to come out, to give me a glimpse of what my future might hold. To prove Andrey Mikhailov wrong about this man in front of me. “But they did?”
Dmitri is quiet for so long, I don’t expect him to answer me.
“Yes,” he finally says. “I thought I could protect her, protect them. She was pregnant with our first child, a boy. She wanted to name him Zachary, which I thought was a terrible name for the heir to my empire.” He chuckles at the memory.
“It seems so silly now. And she would have had her way, of course. She always did—I couldn’t say no to her.
We had bickered about it that day. You know what her last words to me were?
‘At least it’s not Quincy.’ Can you imagine?
Quincy Smirnov, CEO of Smirnov Corporation and pakhan of the feared Smirnov Bratva. ”
The laugh Dmitri lets out is mirthless, more ragged breath than a sound of amusement. The laughter edges on mania, and so does the look in his eyes.
“I would take Quincy Smirnov any day over the emptiness.”
Dmitri drains the whiskey, then springs to his feet so suddenly, it makes me jump. He stalks to the bar and pours himself another. “Do you want one?”
“No, thank you,” I answer, hoping I didn’t disagree too quickly.
Dmitri clears his throat and sits back down on the couch. I’ve never seen him so ragged. His hair looks like he’s been running his hands through it over and over, his jaw shadowed by stubble.
“What happened to you?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, but I’m concerned seeing him in such a raw state.
“You.”
I blink. “Me?”
“You walked into my life, Clara Benson; that’s what happened. You make it impossible to forget you. Hell, I can’t say no to you either. When Pavel told me you demanded to come over tonight, the only answer was yes, though he doesn’t take orders from you.”
I stand up and walk swiftly to his couch, sitting down so I can face him. “Dmitri, look at me—”
I reach out and place my hands on either side of his face, turning his head toward me. His gaze doesn’t follow, focused on the amber liquid in his glass.
“Dmitri?”
He finally looks at me, deep pain darkening the blue depths of his eyes.
“What happened?” I ask softly, almost a whisper.
“We’d just had lunch at her favorite place.
She stepped out to take a call while I paid the bill.
I heard the shots as I was heading toward the door, and then the squeal of tires as the car took off.
She never had a chance—she bled out within minutes, before the ambulance could get there.
Do you have any idea what it was like to hold her as she died, to be so desperate to save her and know I couldn’t?
To know I’d never hear her laugh again? See her smile? To know I’d lost them both?”
Dmitri turns away. I notice the hand holding the whiskey glass is shaking. He drops his head, his hair falling over his eyes and his pained expression.
“I should never have dragged her into this life. I never deserved her.”
The words and the desolate tone break my heart.
I hesitate before wrapping my arms around Dmitri’s shoulders and bringing him closer to me. I expect him to pull away, but he doesn’t. He stiffens for a moment before leaning into my embrace and placing his head against my shoulder. I draw slow circles on his back.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?”
“I’m sorry you had to go through that, and I’m sorry you lost them. I can’t imagine how much pain that caused you, still causes you.”
Gradually, Dmitri’s breathing slows and his body slackens against mine. I carefully lean over and take the whiskey glass from his hand, placing it on the end table. We stay like that for a while, watching the rain form rivulets of water into odd shapes and patterns on the windows.
I drift off, lulled by the warm, crackling fire and the slow rhythm of Dmitri’s breathing.
Eventually, he wakes me, seeking the kind of comfort only I can give him in that moment.