12. Arsen
12
ARSEN
FOUR MONTHS LATER
I walk into my office just as Gedeon lights another cigarette and Dominik pours himself a glass of gin.
“If you’re doing this in my office, you boys better have good news for me,” I warn.
Dominik spins around with a grin. “We have great news, actually. Which is why this—” He holds up his glass. “—is a celebratory drink.”
Gedeon doesn’t look so sure. He’s a nervous smoker. He’s been trying to quit, but when his mind is spinning, a cigarette is the only thing that calms him down.
I set my eyes on him. “What the fuck is going on, Gedeon?”
He takes a puff. “Alessandro wants a meeting. Our sources claim he’s thinking of offering a truce.”
“Good news,” Dominik repeats, raising his glass.
“It’s a fucking trap, Arsen!” Gedeon exclaims, ignoring Dominik. “You can’t get in bed with the Italians. You can’t trust them.”
Dominik scoffs. “It’s one damn meeting. It won’t hurt to hear what the man has to say.”
“Pobeda’s launch has been on hold for almost a year now. Don’t you think the timing is a little suspicious?”
Even if it is, Dominik is right: it’s a tempting offer. Peace could be nice now that I’ll be bringing new life into the world soon.
“The Italians haven’t made any obvious moves?—”
“Maybe because they’ve got a bigger move up their sleeves,” Gedeon interrupts. “One that involves Laila.”
My stomach drops. “What does Laila have to do with any of this?”
Dominik shoots Gedeon a warning glare. Ged glares right back, their scowls deepening in sync as the seconds tick by.
“One of you better start talking,” I growl when the silence stretches on too long.
Gedeon is the first to cave. “There are rumors circulating about your heir.”
“Exactly—rumors!” Dominik says. “Bullshit fuckin’ rumors , G. We can’t make decisions based on every piece of shit the rumor mill churns out.”
I hold up my hand and both men fall silent. “Has Laila’s name been mentioned?”
“No,” Gedeon assures me, and I finally take a full breath. “But there’s talk about who the mother of your child is—whether it’s Natascha, a surrogate, or you’ve taken a mistress.”
I walk over to the window and stare out at the skyline. Somewhere over the bridge and the labyrinth of buildings, Laila is nestled in a cocoon of my own making.
Has it really been eight whole months since I set eyes on her? I can hardly believe it. It’s been the fastest, slowest eight months of my life.
“Natascha’s name has also come up. The fact that she’s your wife makes her vulnerable.” At my indifferent shrug, Gedeon continues, “Which means, if Laila’s name gets out, she’ll be a target, too.”
“Increase security around the house immediately.”
“Already done,” Dominik says. “I may not believe the rumors Gedeon does, but Laila is a good person. She deserves to be protected.”
He and Laila have gotten close over the last eight months. It’s why I can’t talk to Dominik about her anymore. He knows things about her that I wish I did—and he never lets me forget it.
“What about Natascha?” Gedeon asks. “Shouldn’t we up her security?”
“Natascha isn’t going to be my problem for very much longer.” I walk around my desk and pull out the first-class plane tickets I purchased for her and her staff last week.
“She agreed?” Gedeon gasps, his eyes bulging.
Dominik whistles softly. “Ding-dong, the wicked witch is dead. Finally.”
“Not dead. Just out of the country. Laila’s due next month,” I say. “I want Natascha as far away as possible before my daughter is born.”
Gedeon keeps ogling the tickets. “I can’t believe I missed that tantrum. How’d you get her to agree to it?”
I gather up the tickets and head for the door to finally have the conversation I’ve been pushing off. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”
“Can we come?” Dominik pleads. “Pretty, pretty ple?—”
I close the door in their faces. Some things are meant to be savored alone.
Natascha’s smug smile wilts as she studies the tickets. “These are one-way.”
“Once you leave, you won’t be coming back,” I inform her. “From now on, Paris is your home.”
Her jaw falls open. “My entire life is here.”
“Shopping and whoring yourself out isn’t a life, Natascha. Even if it was, you can do all that in Paris.”
She tosses the ticket at my feet. “Go to hell.”
“I could always have you shipped off to Russia instead.”
Her eyes flicker to the ticket she’s just discarded. “My father?—”
I roll my eyes. “Your father doesn’t give a shit where you are or what you do as long as he benefits from our marriage. Or did you think he actually cared about you?”
Natascha bites her lower lip, the wheels in her head spinning so fast I expect to see smoke. “Is this about her ?”
“Yes. It’s in my daughter’s best interests to put as much distance between the two of you as?—”
“I’m not talking about the brat. I’m talking about her— the woman.”
Laila. Her name is almost out of my mouth before I stop myself. I’m not about to send Natascha off to France with Laila’s name on her tongue.
She’s not fit to utter it.
“She is not your concern.”
Natascha flinches at the ice in my tone. “Are you still fucking her? I hear the rumors floating around, but I thought?—”
“What rumors?”
My chest tightens.
If even Natascha has heard the rumors… who else has?
Natascha waves away the question and bends to snatch the ticket off the floor. “It doesn’t matter. I’d much rather live in Paris than share the same air space as you and your little skank, anyway.” She turns towards the door, but stops, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder. “What about my allowance?”
God, she’s shameless. If she wasn’t being uncharacteristically cooperative, I’d have a lot to say to her. As it is, I bite my tongue.
“Your allowance will stay the same. Unless you keep talking,” I add. “Then I won’t be so generous.”
“Fine.” She lifts her chin. “Walk me out, Arsen? One last time?”
She’s worried about appearances until the bitter end, it seems. But walking her down to the car is easy enough to stomach when I know it’s the last time. I open my office door and usher her into the hallway.
Together, Natascha and I make our way to the elevators.
Somewhere between floors thirty and one, she starts peppering me with the important questions: How big is the Paris apartment? Will she still have a private chef? Can she set up lines of credit under the Adamov name?
“I want a two-bedroom penthouse,” she tells me as we reach the car, “with high ceilings and a view of the Champs-élysées.”
I hold the door open for her. “I’ve arranged for?—”
But my voice is drowned out by the screech of a gunshot. So loud and so close that my ears ring. I duck down, shielding myself behind the car as screams ring out and people scatter.
There’s another round of gunshots. But when I turn to pull Natascha behind the car with me, I find her clutching at her gold chains…
That are now a slick, blood red.
Her eyes are wide, her skin pale. For once, she doesn’t look pissed or annoyed.
She looks terrified.
Her body sways and suddenly, she’s on the ground. My team closes around us, allowing me to belly crawl towards Natascha. She tries to speak, but she’s choking on blood, gurgling sounds coming from where the bullet buried itself in her neck.
As her hand claws at my shirt, I grab it and squeeze. “It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”
Lying is the only thing I can do for her now.