8. Veronica
8
VERONICA
The next day…
S unlight floods the formal breakfast room through towering windows. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and buttery croissants wafts through the air, but my stomach churns too much to even consider eating.
I poke half-heartedly at a piece of toast on my plate, my thoughts clouded by the remnants of last night’s dream. The stranger again. Saving me again. Taking me into his bed again.
His face is still vivid in my mind—those dark eyes, that steady voice whispering I was safe. My fingers twitch against the table, and I force myself to look up, shaking off the memory as Elena places a hand on mine.
“You didn’t sleep well, did you?” she asks gently, her eyes filled with concern.
I shrug, trying to keep my tone light. “Like a military parade. Kept passing out then getting disciplined.”
Elena chuckles softly, but the tension in her gaze doesn’t fade. “Sounds kind of fun.”
Before I can respond, Dmitri’s voice cuts through the room. “Good morning, ladies.”
I glance up to see him striding into the room. The man radiates authority, his movements precise and deliberate, but there’s an odd softness in his expression when his eyes meet Elena’s.
“Veronica,” he greets, turning his attention to me. “How are you feeling this morning?”
“Like I almost drowned,” I reply, leaning back in my chair. “But hey, at least I’m alive. That’s something, right?”
His lips twitch, forming a smile. “We need to ensure you stay alive in future. That means killing Marco Gorlami and Vito Lombardi.”
“Wow, not one for small talk, are you? Just straight into planning murder with your coffee?”
Elena clears her throat, shooting him a warning glance, but Dmitri ignores her as he takes a seat at the head of the table. His gaze locks onto mine, and the air in the room grows thicker.
He folds his hands on the table, his piercing gaze unwavering. “To keep you safe from Marco, we need to make it clear that you’re under our protection. That protection will come from marrying my cousin, Maxim.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, narrowing my eyes. “Sorry, what?”
“You’re going to marry him,” Dmitri says matter-of-factly. “It will be a temporary arrangement—sixty days. His father is temporary Pakhan and Maxim can only inherit if he’s married and trying for a child.”
“I’m supposed to have a kid with this guy? What the fuck?”
“You just need to make the marriage look real until he inherits and we deal with the Lombardi problem. Then you can walk away safe. That’s what you want, right?”
“What I want is a bookstore I can live in. One with chocolate in the drawers, and wine in the faucets.”
“This is the next best thing, trust me.”
I shake my head, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. “Marriage to a complete stranger. Sure. What could possibly go wrong? What if your cousin is worse than Marco? You ever consider that?”
“Maxim is a good man,” Dmitri replies angrily, leaning back in his chair. “He’s not marriage material but, like you, he’ll put a show on for the next couple of months. The two of you will live here, make Victor think the marriage is real. The wedding’s being planned as we speak.”
The way he says it sends a shiver down my spine. Like it’s already decided.
“What if he doesn’t like me? What if I don’t like him?” I press, crossing my arms over my chest. “I’m not exactly easy to live with, you know.”
Dmitri shrugs. “You’ll manage for two months. Maxim isn’t the type to care whether someone’s easy to live with. He’s a busy man.”
“Comforting,” I mutter, glancing at Elena. “And you’re okay with this? Handing me off to some guy I’ve never met?”
She reaches for my hand. “You’re family, Veronica. We’d never put you in danger. And if you don’t like him, you can always tell him some of your jokes.”
I snort, despite the rising anxiety twisting in my chest. “That’ll end well.”
Dmitri’s lips curl into a faint smirk. “Maxim is waiting for us in the games room. Let’s go.”
I open my mouth to argue, to demand a better solution, but the look on Dmitri’s face stops me. He’s not asking for my opinion. This isn’t a negotiation—it’s a decision that’s already been made.
I turn to Elena. “Did you know about this?”
She at least has the decency to look sheepish. “It’s for the best,” she says.
“Fine,” I mutter, getting to my feet. “But if this cousin turns out to be a psychopath, I’m blaming both of you. I’ve had my psycho quota maxed out for the year already.”
Elena squeezes my hand, her smile soft. “Don’t worry. You’ll be okay. And who knows? Maybe Maxim will be the one.”
“Yeah, nothing says the one like marrying a woman you’ve never met for sixty days just so you can inherit a criminal enterprise.”
The walls are lined with bookshelves and art, a peculiar mix of classical paintings and contemporary prints. A chessboard is set up on a small table by the window, the pieces ready to begin.
My fingers grip the doorframe as my heart thuds against my ribs.
Elena glances back at me, her smile faltering for a moment when she sees my expression. “Hey,” she says softly, stepping closer. “It’s going to be okay. Just… take a deep breath and trust me, alright?”
Trust. That’s a tall order. But I nod, forcing my feet to move.
And then I see him.
He’s sitting in an armchair at the far end of the room, one leg crossed over the other, his posture casual but commanding. A sleek black cane rests against his knee. He’s reading an old copy of Crime and Punishment.
His dark brown hair is neatly combed back, and even from across the room, I can see the sharp cut of his jaw and the cold intensity in his eyes.
I know that face. But where from?
“Finished the crime bit yet?” I ask. “Or onto the punishment part already?”
He looks up at me and I gasp.
Those eyes. Recognition slams into me like a freight train. It’s him. The man from my dreams. The one who saved me from drowning, who whispered that I was safe. How can he be here? How is this possible?
The book snaps shut, the sound breaking the silence like a gunshot. His gaze locks onto mine, and the air shifts. It’s electric, sharp, and laced with something I can’t quite name. For a moment, we just stare at each other, the weight of his scrutiny pinning me in place.
But then his expression hardens. His jaw clenches, and his eyes narrow into something cold. He shakes his head once, his movements abrupt and filled with tension.
“Not her,” he says, his deep voice cutting through the room like steel. There’s a bite to his words, a frustration that stings even though I don’t understand it.
I blink, stunned. “Excuse me?” I manage to say, though my voice comes out shakier than I’d like.
He doesn’t answer. He stands, towering and broad, his presence even more imposing up close. The cane in his hand taps the floor as he strides toward the door without a glance in my direction.
“Maxim—” Dmitri starts, stepping toward him. “Where are you going?”
“Not her,” he snaps again, his accent curling around the words.
And then he’s gone, the door slamming shut behind him.
My mind races, trying to make sense of what just happened, but all I can think is: why did he look at me like I was the last person he wanted to see on the entire planet.