Chapter 17 Adriana #2
I murmur, “Yes, sir,” and take the nearest empty chair. My stomach knots tighter.
I glance at my coffee, fingers tightening on the cup. I keep my head down, trying to pretend the room isn’t closing in.
“Not her fault,” Dante says. “I kept her up last night.”
An awkward silence descends. I don’t know if I should cry or laugh at his interference.
The aunt’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Red can be a beautiful color,” she says lightly, buttering toast with surgical precision. “On someone who knows how to wear it.” A pause. “Larissa did.”
There’s a ripple of amusement down the table. Dante’s father slides the sugar bowl toward me like a test. “You’ll learn,” he says. “We prefer restraint over spectacle.”
Spectacle. The word lands like a slap, like he was there in my doorway, watching me peel off that torn red dress. My cheeks heat; I force them cool. I think of last night—of Dante’s mouth, his hands, the way my name sounded in his throat—and I straighten my spine.
“Coffee?” the maid whispers at my elbow. I nod.
“You should learn something from someone like Larissa,” the aunt says. “I know that your family hasn’t exactly been doing well for the last couple of years, and I imagine you didn’t have the chance to be at many events like last night.”
“Maksim is a family friend,” I finally say. “It wasn’t my first time.”
“Could have fooled me,” Sergei replies. His wife, who’s sitting next to him, looks uncomfortable. When she sees me looking at her, she gives me a smile that comes out like a grimace.
And suddenly, I see the rest of my life unfolding as it is today. No matter how hard I try to fight it, these people will find ways to humiliate me. That’s all it ever was, trading my sister off for me. I’m doomed.
“Larissa does know how to turn heads. God, I miss that girl. Why did you ever stop seeing her, Dante?” the aunt continues.
She doesn’t wait for him to reply. “And she’s impeccable, always. I always saw her as a Volkov bride. People still talk about the emerald gown she wore to the New Year’s party.”
A ripple of agreement passes around the table. My face heats, the toast on my plate suddenly impossible to swallow. I smooth my skirt, pretending not to notice the weight of their eyes, their smiles too sharp to be kind.
Before I can form a reply, Dante sets down his fork with a decisive clink. The sound cuts through the chatter like a blade.
“Funny,” he says, voice cool, “I don’t remember Larissa ever being my wife.”
The table goes silent. His father’s eyes narrow, but Dante doesn’t give him the chance to retort. He rises, collects my plate and his in one smooth motion, and jerks his chin toward the terrace doors.
“Come on,” he mutters, not looking at me, not giving anyone else another word.
The scrape of his chair echoes as he walks out, plates in hand. I stare after him, stunned, then push back my own chair to follow. The air in the room feels less like family and more like a firing squad, but as I step outside behind him, the tension loosens, just a little.
For the first time all morning, I can breathe.
The terrace air is cool against my skin, a relief after the suffocating dining room. Dante sets the plates down on the small iron table, pulls out a chair for me, then sits across from me in silence.
I take a bite of toast, more to have something to do with my hands than because I’m hungry. The quiet stretches between us, thick but not uncomfortable.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say finally, my voice low.
He doesn’t reply. He just tears a piece of bread, chews slowly, his eyes fixed on the garden beyond. The muscles in his jaw shift, tight, unreadable.
I study him, the broad set of his shoulders, the way his hands curl around his coffee cup like he’s holding back words. I want to ask why he did it, what it means, but something stops me.
So I eat in silence too, the unspoken heavy between us, and try not to wonder if his silence is a shield—for me, or for himself.
The silence stretches, broken only by the clink of cutlery and the faint rustle of leaves in the garden. I sip my coffee, pretending the question hasn’t been turning over in my mind since last night. Finally, I force the words out.
“Would it…would it be possible for me to go out?” My voice is tentative, cautious.
His head turns, eyes narrowing slightly. “Out where?”
Panic flickers in my chest. I hadn’t thought this through.
The first thing that tumbles out is “To my parents.”
His gaze narrows, weighing me like a blade across a scale. My pulse stutters, while his eyes stay on me, unblinking. “You don’t seem particularly close to your family,” he says finally, voice even but edged.
I swallow, shifting under the weight of his stare. “I need to see my little brother,” I say softly. That, at least, is the truth.
Something in his expression flickers—barely there, but I catch it. He leans back in his chair, exhales through his nose. “Fine. I’ll have Oleg take you.”
The words are a victory, small but real, and my pulse jumps. “I was hoping I could go alone,” I try, tentative, pushing the boundary just a little.
His mouth curves—sharp, humorless. “Not happening.”
I nod, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from pushing further. Okay, I think. Baby steps.
I sip my coffee, hiding the smallest smile behind the rim of the cup. For the first time, I’ve pried open a door. Now I just have to be smart enough to keep it from slamming shut.
Oleg is already waiting by the car, one hand on the roof, the other holding the keys with the sort of patient boredom only someone in this job could master. I move past him and yank open the front passenger door.
He pauses, brows drawing together. “The back seat, Mrs. Volkova.”
I fix him with what I hope is an innocent look. “No offense, but I’m not a hostage. I get carsick in the back.” I slide into the front, clutching my bag like it’s a weapon.
He hesitates, then shakes his head and sighs—very loudly, as if to make sure I hear it. “You know, most people prefer to be driven like royalty.”
I buckle my seat belt. “I was never very good at royalty.”
He gives me a look, somewhere between resigned and amused, and starts the engine. “Don’t touch the radio,” he warns.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say, but my fingers are already hovering dangerously close to the buttons.
He side-eyes me. “You touch it, I’m putting on Russian talk radio for the entire ride.”
I laugh. For the first time in days, it feels real. “Noted. Truce?”
He grunts, but I catch the hint of a smile as he pulls out of the driveway.
We drive in companionable silence, the city slipping past the windows, Oleg occasionally grumbling at other drivers. I keep my gaze on the passing streets, letting old memories tug at me.
Then I spot it—a flash of stained glass, the familiar bell tower. The church.
My chest tightens.
“Saint Michael’s,” I blurt before I can stop myself. “My family used to come here.”
Anya used to come here. That’s what Bella told me, and the lady at the party confirmed it. I’ve no idea who Anya is outside of her Instagram profile, and since she seemed to spend a lot of time at the church, this might be the perfect place to start finding out.
My pulse jumps. Something about the sight of it—so ordinary, so familiar—makes my mouth go dry. I need to see it up close, just for a moment.
“Oleg,” I say suddenly, “can we stop here for a minute?”
He glances over, suspicious. “Here? At the church?”
I scramble for an excuse. “I, um…just want to light a candle. For my mother. She’s been…on my mind.”
He looks unconvinced but slows anyway, pulling up to the curb. “Five minutes,” he says, gruff. “And I’m coming in with you. Last time someone said ‘just a minute,’ I ended up waiting in a parking lot for two hours.”
I snort, already unbuckling my seat belt. “Don’t worry, I’ll make it quick. Besides, I doubt there’s much trouble to get into in a church.”
He mutters something in Russian under his breath, but signals and pulls over anyway. “You know, you’re making this job a lot less boring, Mrs. Volkova.”
I flash him a quick smile. “Glad to be of service, Oleg.”
I’m already out the door before he can change his mind, the old nerves fluttering in my stomach as I head up the steps. The church doors creak open, the scent of wax and old wood washing over me—a strange kind of homecoming, and maybe a chance to look for answers I’m not supposed to have.
The sanctuary is mostly empty, dust motes spinning in the shafts of colored light.
I slip a few coins into the donation box and take a candle, pressing the match to the wick with shaky hands.
As the little flame flickers to life, I let my eyes close, thinking of Julianne, the missing girls, and everything I lost and everything I don’t know how to find.
A voice startles me from behind, soft but wry. “Well, there’s something you don’t see every day. Adriana Petrova, lighting a candle in church.”
I turn, blinking, to find one of the sisters from the parish office, habit slightly crooked, mouth curved in a knowing smile. I remember her vaguely—always strict, always watching, a little too sharp for comfort.
“You never wanted to come here, did you?” she says, stepping closer. “You used to squirm through the whole service. But your sister—now she was devoted. Jules would help with every mass, every festival, always first to volunteer.”
“Jules was always special,” I murmur, more to myself than to her, as I stare at the wavering candlelight.
The sister glances back, lips quirking. “So were you, Adriana. So observant. I always thought you were meant for more than…” Her eyes flick to the ring on my finger, then away, her words drifting off as if she’s said too much.
She starts to turn, but I reach out and catch her sleeve. “Wait—Sister. Can I ask you something about Anya Kozlova?”
At once, the softness fades from her face. Suspicion tightens her mouth. “Why are you asking about Anya? It’s been a long time since she was here.”
I try to sound casual, but desperation claws at my voice. “It’s just—people still talk about her. Jules…my sister always said Anya was her best friend, like another sister. But no one ever told me what happened to her. Did she just…leave?”
The sister glances toward the darkened nave, making sure no one’s listening.
“She was a sweet girl. Quiet, but kind. Always helping, always listening. Too curious for her own good.” Her voice drops lower, urgent.
“Anya got involved with something she shouldn’t have.
Some of the men who came around—strangers, not parishioners.
She started asking questions, poking into things she should’ve left alone.
And then—she was gone. Just gone. The police called it a runaway. But I never believed it.”
My heart thuds. “What kind of things was she asking about?”
The sister hesitates, lips pursing. “Anya wasn’t nosy about church matters.
It was something outside—something she got caught up in with your sister’s crowd.
She was worried about one of the men Jules was seeing.
Said he was dangerous, that he and his friends were making girls ‘disappear.’ Anya told me she’d heard rumors about parties, drugs, girls from other towns who never went home. ”
She lowers her voice even further. “She said someone was threatening her. That’s the last thing she confided. After that, she stopped coming around. A week later, she was gone.”
Before I can ask more, Oleg clears his throat from the back of the church, his presence suddenly loud in the quiet sanctuary. It’s the universal signal: time’s up. If I linger any longer, it’ll only draw more attention, more questions.
I nod, thanking the sister softly for her time, for her candor. She just squeezes my hand and offers a sad, meaningful smile before disappearing into the shadows of the pews.
I’m almost at the door, already thinking about how to piece together what I’ve learned, when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
“Hello?” I say.
“Adi, is that you?” the voice at the other end says.
My pulse stutters. I step out into the sunlight, thumb trembling as I answer. “Jules?”