Chapter 13 Adriana
ADRIANA
What is he doing to me?
My body is still trembling, my pussy still quivering around nothing, the aftershocks of release making it hard to breathe. I can feel the slickness between my thighs, proof of what he just did to me in the middle of the hallway, pressed against the wall like I belonged there.
And I let him.
I saw him kill a man. I watched the life drain out of someone’s eyes because of him, and now I surrender to his hands, his mouth, like I have no will of my own? What the hell is wrong with me?
Anger spikes, hot and sudden, enough to cut through the haze. I shove at his chest, harder than I mean to, but he stumbles back a step, surprise flickering in his eyes.
“Don’t,” I snap, though my voice shakes. I can still taste him, feel him, and it makes me furious at him, at myself.
I bend to gather my books, hands unsteady, heart still racing. My fingers close around the top one and my stomach clenches. I hope to God he didn’t see what I was reading.
The cover is half-hidden against my chest as I stack the rest. I don’t look at him. I can’t.
I straighten, clutching the pile to me like a shield, and start walking. My legs feel weak, but I force them to carry me forward, away from him, away from the heat still smoldering in my skin.
I don’t dare glance back to see if he’s watching me.
I slip into my room and close the door behind me. The quiet feels good. I set my books and bag on the bed, pull out my phone, and swipe to the photos Bella AirDropped earlier.
I scroll.
Dance floor—lights too bright, faces half-blurred.
Hallway—dark, “Staff Only” sign on a crooked door.
Back bar—bottles lined up like soldiers, a bouncer’s shoulder in the corner.
I go back and start again, slower. Zoom. Pan. On the third pass I see it.
A thin, light-blue paper band on a girl’s wrist. Another photo, different girl, same band. One more, in the hallway, and there it is again—tucked under a sleeve, the little notch where it fastens. I check the other guests. They have bands of a different color on their arms.
Bella never mentioned bands. This place usually stamps hands at the door. Wristbands mean…something else. A list, a section, a rule I don’t know. Maybe she didn’t notice it either.
It’s not much. But it’s something.
That’s all I have. And it’s not enough to call anyone, not enough to prove anything. Which means I have to go to the club. See it up close. Watch who gets the bands and where they go.
I turn off the lamp and lie in the dark with the phone under my pillow and the words blinking in my head.
Blue bands.
It should be enough to quiet me. It isn’t.
I keep circling back to him.
Dante’s hands on my waist when the church went silent. His mouth on mine when the room decided to watch. The way I hated it and answered anyway, as if my body had not gotten the message my brain has been writing since I came back.
I hate how easily my body answered him. My pulse still trips over itself remembering the heat of his palm at my waist, the strength in his grip, how he handled me like he knew exactly what he was doing.
He was right, in his own cold way. I watched him earlier today, couldn’t help myself.
The way he stands in a room. How everyone else shrinks back.
How he seems to know what’s going to happen a second before it does.
I can still feel the weight of his gaze from across the church, from the car, from the hall outside this very door.
But this morning, the way he brutally killed that man without even flinching.
I saw him—really saw him—standing over that man, cold as the marble statues, the gun steady in his hand. Not a word. Not a hesitation. A machine, I think, built by his father for moments just like that. I know that’s what he is. A weapon in a suit.
But he’s more than just the threat. There’s something in the quiet way he watches. The careful, measured way he speaks. Something almost…lonely. I tell myself not to think about that, not to soften the edges. But I can’t help it. I’m not sure if it’s curiosity or something worse.
My body aches with exhaustion, but my mind won’t let go. Blue bands, locked doors, missing girls, and now this man—my husband—whose hands still feel like a bruise on my skin, even when he’s not in the room.
I squeeze my eyes shut and promise myself tomorrow I’ll be smarter. Stronger. I’ll find the answers I came here for. I won’t let him distract me.
I barely sleep. When I do, my dreams are a mess of blue wristbands and dark corridors, a flash of Dante’s eyes in the garden, the weight of a gun in the morning mist.
When dawn finally comes, I dress quickly, wash my face, and slip my notebook and phone into my bag. I remind myself why I’m here. Julianne. I need to find my sister. I can’t let myself forget that, no matter what else crowds in.
Downstairs, the house is already awake. Coffee and voices drift from the kitchen. The Volkovs gather in the dining room, talking in low voices.
I feel their eyes on me as I step in, but it’s Liam who waves me over with a grin.
“Morning, Mrs. Volkova,” he says, as if the words are still a private joke.
“Hungry?”
I nod and take a seat, reaching for a slice of toast. My stomach is a knot, but I need something normal to do with my hands.
He pushes a jar of jam toward me. “Did you sleep?”
I shrug. “A little.”
He studies me, then grins. “You’ll get used to the noise here. We’re not a quiet family.”
I don’t say anything to that.
“You’re just in time. Coffee?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” I sit, pull a mug close, and try to look like I belong.
He grins. “You survived another night. That’s worth a medal in this house.”
I manage a smile. The others don’t bother hiding their glances.
“You’ll learn the rhythm soon enough,” he says, barely glancing my way. “If you’re paying attention.”
“I’m trying,” I say quietly.
One of the aunts fixes her eyes on me. “We do things a certain way here. That’s all.”
I nod. My throat feels tight. “Of course.”
Sergei folds his paper and sets it aside with care. “You must be settling in by now,” he says, his voice mild, too smooth. “Or perhaps you find our home too…structured. I suppose it’s a change from what you’re used to.”
I force a polite smile, trying not to react.
One of the aunts looks at me with thin concern. “It must be difficult for someone from your background. Things run differently here. We have a reputation to uphold.”
She doesn’t say the quiet part out loud. Unlike yours.
I keep my eyes down, spreading jam on toast I don’t want.
Sergei continues, almost thoughtful. “You Petrova girls always did have a flair for disappearing when it suited you. Your sister wasn’t the only one who ran at the first sign of trouble.”
My hand goes tight around the knife. I taste metal, not jam.
“Dad,” Liam starts.
But Sergei isn’t done. “At least you’re here now, for as long as it lasts. I’m sure you’ll find a way to adjust—unless running is simply in your nature. But unlike your father, I will not tolerate disgrace.”
It’s quiet. My throat burns. I blink fast, willing myself not to cry in front of them.
“I need some air,” I manage, standing up.
No one stops me. Liam touches my elbow, a soft reassurance. I leave the kitchen as quickly as I can without looking rushed and nearly run right into Dante in the hall.
He steadies me, hands gentle but sure. “What happened?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. If I try, I’ll say something I can’t take back, or worse—I’ll let the tears spill.
I press my lips together and shake my head.
The words feel stuck, heavy and dangerous in my chest. I keep my eyes on his collarbone, then on the floor, then anywhere but his face. If I speak, I might break.
He waits for a second. I say nothing.
Gently, I pull my arm free and step past him, not trusting myself to look back.
I walk down the hall, keeping my shoulders straight, breathing through the tightness in my throat. The murmur of the family’s voices fades behind me. I keep my back straight until I get to my room and close the door, finally letting the quiet settle over me.
I press my palms to the cool edge of the dresser, steadying myself, and stare at my own reflection until the burning in my eyes passes.
I won’t cry for them. Not here. Not now.
The voices, the kitchen, the look on Dante’s face—all of it slips away for a second. I breathe out, hoping the tightness in my chest will ease.
Then I see it.
Laid out on my bed, impossible to miss—a slinky silk gown, red, barely more than a whisper of fabric. Expensive, probably, and meant to be worn for someone else’s satisfaction. My skin crawls. I would never wear something like this. They know that. That’s the point.
There’s a note beside it.
Wear it tonight. —Dante
The words are simple. Cold. Demanding. No question mark, no softness, just a command.
For a moment I just stand there, fists clenching at my sides. I hate them. All of them. They want to wear me down, chip away whatever’s left of me until I fit their shape.
Something in me cracks. The anger dissolves, swallowed by something deeper and heavier. The tears come, sudden and fierce, and I hate myself for it, but I let them fall anyway. I press my face to my hands and cry until my shoulders shake and my throat aches.
They can have their games. They can lay out their costumes and pretend they control me.
But not tonight. Not if I can help it.
I wipe my face and shove the gown into the back of the closet, pushing it far enough that I can’t see the red shine anymore.
If they want me to show up, they’ll have to drag me there. Tonight, I’m not going. I’m done letting them decide who I am.
I reach for the stack of library books I borrowed earlier and open the first one, a green commercial directory that lists licenses and owners.
I run a finger down the address I know for Serrano’s club.
No “Serrano.” Instead: South Pier Entertainment LLC, cabaret license, manager of record K.
Kostin. I copy the entry into my notebook.
Have I heard that name before? I can’t remember.
The owner might have already sold his business, but there’s a reason Dante’s family has this book in the library. They like to keep tabs on people, and books like this are a treasure trove of information for people who know what they’re looking for.
Next is a worn fire and egress atlas. Outdated, still useful.
I find the block and trace thin lines with a pencil.
Front door to the avenue. A service corridor behind the main rooms. A gate that opens to a narrow lane.
They could have taken the girls on that road.
Or they could have changed the entire place already, front to back. I won’t know till I go there myself.
I gather the library books in my arms and slip out of my room, nerves tight. The sooner these are back in their place, the better—I don’t want anyone, especially Dante, wondering what I’ve been reading.
The hall is empty, but voices drift from the doorway to the den, Sergei’s low and clipped, his brother Viktor’s voice more casual. I pause just inside the library, shelving the first book, then freeze when I hear my name.
“…Dante and Adriana will be at Maksim’s dinner tonight,” Sergei is saying.
His brother grunts. “Does he even want to go?”
“He’ll go. Maksim expects it, so does his daddy. He wants to see the new bride. The last thing we need is questions about why she’s here instead of Julianne.”
“Anyone asks, what do you say?”
Sergei’s tone hardens. “We say nothing. Smile. Change the subject. The Petrovs don’t want a scandal any more than we do. Maksim’s event is neutral ground, but watch the girl. If she starts digging, if anyone brings up Julianne—shut it down.”
“Julianne won’t be a problem, we’re taking care of her,” Viktor says.
A chill goes through me. Is it true? What do they know about her?
My chest tightens. Maksim’s dinner. Both families. A room full of people who know more than they say. And I’ll be expected to play my part, arm in arm with Dante, a stand-in no one quite believes.
I was ready to lock myself in tonight, to let them gossip, but now I know—if there’s even a chance someone slips up, or if Maksim says something he shouldn’t, I need to be there. This might be the only time I can listen in, maybe even ask a question nobody wants to answer.
If I don’t go, I’ll miss whatever truths float to the surface when people drink too much and try too hard to act normal.
I slide the last book onto the shelf and wipe my palms on my skirt. The party tonight isn’t about celebration. It’s about secrets. And I need to hear every word.