Chapter 6
Aleksy’s demand replays in my head as if on a loop.
“Get his guard down. Then kill him.”
Not only am I suddenly supposed to be a Mafia wife, but I also need to become an assassin.
I sink into the cool leather seat and glance out of Emilio’s SUV window.
Thunder rolls, and a bolt of lightning zips across the sky. For a split second, I consider throwing open the door and making a run for it.
Dread has etched itself in the pit of my stomach over what happens when we get back to his—no, our home.
We haven’t spoken the entire ride. The only sound is the screech of the windshield wipers and the storm.
Emilio finally slows at a black iron gate with pointed tips and stone pillars. Blinking, I attempt to see beyond it, but the rain makes it too blurry.
Water spills into the car when Emilio rolls down his window. He punches a code into a rusty speaker box. Craning my neck, I attempt to see it, but he blocks me.
The gate opens like a mouth ready to swallow me whole. Emilio rolls up the window and drives up the sloped driveway. Darkness and trees surround us.
My jaw drops when the headlights land on the all-stone estate home. It’s stunning and nothing like what I expected from Emilio.
The home is a fortress, fit for billionaires and regals. I don’t know how much the Lombardis pay their capos, but in the Morozova Bratva, only bosses have homes like this.
I turn to look at Emilio. “Did you grow up here?” That has to be the only explanation.
He tightens his hand around the steering wheel. “Yes.”
We park in the circular driveway, not in a garage. He cuts the engine, and without a word, steps out into the rain.
Sighing, I unbuckle my seat belt and trail him. The rain relentlessly soaks my dress and hair. By the time I walk inside, I’m drenched.
Emilio flips on a dim light, and a chandelier with cobwebs overhead casts a golden light in the grand entry.
For a long second, neither of us says anything.
Silence is our main form of communication.
Arguing seems to be the second.
The air is stale and thick with traces of dust. The interior reminds me of an old castle that’s been vacant for too long. But beneath the dust and cobwebs is architecture art.
Soaring ceilings that make me feel short, arched windows, dark walnut trim, and stained glass bleeding with assorted colors, create its beauty.
Whoever built this home spent time perfecting every detail.
Whoever lived here doesn’t have good lasting memories.
I can feel it in the air.
When I peer back at Emilio, his emotionless gaze roams over me. My soaked hair. My wet and now-see-through white dress. I shiver beneath his stare.
I clear my throat. “How long has it been since you stayed here?”
“Years.” He slams the door shut before wandering to the iron staircase, collecting a coat of dust with his finger.
“Where did you stay before?”
“My place in the city.” He shakes water droplets from his hair.
“Why are we here then?”
He doesn’t reply.
I roll my eyes. “So, what? Do I pick a random room and claim it as mine?” Stretching out my arms, I force myself to yawn. “I’m tired, tipsy, and possibly three seconds from puking.”
I don’t need to puke, but it’s my attempt to turn him off.
Surely, no one wants to consummate a marriage with a wife claiming they need to vomit, right?
He turns without a word and starts up the stairs. Pausing for a moment, he peers over his shoulder, as if waiting for me to follow.
“Hopefully, there’s somewhere for me to puke up there,” I say loudly while following him.
If only I’d been able to pack my bags.
I’d have snuck some weapons in there.
When we reach the second floor, he leads me to the first bedroom on the right. A queen-size bed with a white headboard trimmed in gold sits along a wall. The wallpaper is blush and gold, giving the room a soft and feminine feel.
The white comforter that was on my bed this morning is now here. A folded stack of my clothes is on the bed, and my suitcase is on the floor.
“You’ll sleep here,” he says.
I spin to face him. “Whose room is this?”
“Yours.”
“Not yours?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
Here I am, giving him ideas. Stupid.
Again, he doesn’t respond.
My new husband doesn’t give words or information freely. Not a great match for a blabbermouth like myself.
He leaves the room, shutting the door behind him. I swear, I hear a lock click on the other side.
I kick off my wedges, sweep my gaze over the room, and take in my new space. There’s an en suite bathroom and an empty walk-in closet.
I collect my clothes from the bed and shove them back inside the suitcase. I’m not unpacking because I’m not staying.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I wring out my hair before digging in my purse for my phone when a thought hits me.
“Her Instagram,” I mutter, opening the app. “I’ll message her on there.”
I slump my shoulders, ready to throw the phone across the room when I find Dasha’s profile deactivated. She knows she can never show her face here again without consequences and will have to hide from Aleksy, the Bratva, and the Lombardis for the rest of her life.
Both of us are stuck in a shitty life, either way you look at it.
I toss my phone on the bed, wander to the bookshelf, and pull down a notebook.
Someone wrote Aurora loves Edward Cullen on the first page and glued magazine clippings of Twilight characters. They also drew hearts and scribbled Team Vampire.
Poor Aurora. She caught the Twilight bug too.
All of us thought pale, stalky men were the rage then.
I shove the notebook back onto the shelf and check the door, seeing if Emilio actually locked me in. He didn’t, thankfully.
I slowly open the door, cringing as it creaks, and tiptoe out of the room. Voices float through a closed door down the hall. I creep toward the door, pressing my ear against it, and attempt to listen to Emilio speaking on the other side.
“I don’t trust her.” He goes quiet for a moment, as if listening to someone on the other end of a call. “She means nothing to me.”
I squeeze one eye shut, like it’ll help me hear better, as he pauses again.
“I’ll visit soon. Okay?” Another pause from Emilio. “I love you too. Goodbye.”
Footsteps come closer from the other side of the door. I spin on my heel and bolt in the opposite direction toward the stairway. I’m halfway down the stairs when the door creaks open.
When I hit the landing, I turn right, in search of the kitchen. I pass through a dining room with long maroon drapes and an old table that could easily seat twenty people.
Again, something fit for kings and queens.
My shoulders slump, and I bend at the waist when I reach the chef’s kitchen with outdated appliances. I open the fridge to find bottled water, ginger ale, and a basket of strawberries and blueberries.
Weird combo, but no judgment.
I grab a water, shut the fridge, turn, and slam straight into a hard chest—so similar to how I did the night of the engagement dinner. I gasp, losing my balance, and fall back against the fridge.
Emilio stands only inches away from me, his face hard and brimming with anger. His gaze sharpens as he stares me down. My heart pounds, ready to lurch out of my chest, when he pulls a switchblade from his pocket.
He crowds me so close that I can’t move, and I shrink against the fridge when he flips open the blade and slowly glides it along my jawline. As fucking terrified as I am, I refuse to look away from him.
Don’t beg him to stop.
He adds pressure and lowers the blade to my throat. Cold steel brushes along my skin. I gulp, and his smirk says he heard it.
“Don’t eavesdrop on me again.” He nudges the blade’s tip into my throat just deep enough to break the skin.
I grip the water bottle, wishing I had something to use as a weapon so I could smash it against his face. “If you don’t want me eavesdropping, then let me go home.”
“This is your home.” He slowly drags the blade down the curve of my neck before leaning in closer, his cold breath brushing my cheek. “Get used to it.”
A shiver crawls down my spine.
“Why me, but not Dasha?” I whisper. “Why did I have to come here?”
The blade leaves my skin as he steps back and slips it back into his pocket. The water bottle falls from my fingers.
Emilio captures my face in his hand, brushing his thumb over the skin he punctured with the knife. “Because Dasha never made me feel this alive.”
My mouth drops open, unable to form words.
He doesn’t give me a chance to respond before turning on his heel and charging out of the kitchen.
I double over to catch my breath, resting my hands on my knees as I draw air into my lungs.
Seconds later, the front door slams shut.
I creep from the kitchen, my heart hammering, and into the foyer to find Emilio gone. Peeking out the window, I spot taillights fading down the drive.
This is it.
My time to run.
Jack-freaking-pot.
I open the door, and an alarm shrieks through the house.
My chest clamps tight when the taillights bleed brighter and then reverse, coming closer.
He’s coming back.
Do I hide? Make a run for it?
I have no money. No shoes. Nothing.
“Fuck it.” I run.
I run faster than I’ve ever run in my life in the opposite direction of the driveway.
I’ll sleep on the street if I have to.
Or under a bridge or in a ditch. Anything is better than living with this knife-wielding psycho.
My lungs burn, my feet pounding against the pavers, and I glance back to see the SUV stopped.
I sprint faster, ignoring the brutal rain and strong wind.
Don’t stop.
Run, Liliya.
Run like Dasha.
When I reach the backyard, I pass a pool, a pond, and head straight for the wooded area. Every few steps, I glance back, expecting Emilio to suddenly appear behind me.
I plunge deeper into the trees, branches hitting my body, and the lack of light makes it hard to see. My legs feel weak, and my body hurts.
Then it happens.
Crack!
“Fuck!” I scream.
Pain shoots through my foot, and I collapse to the ground. I clasp my ankle to find a jagged stick stuck through the arch of my foot. I sink my teeth into my lip to stop myself from screaming again, biting so hard that I taste blood, and yank the stick free.
The wound isn’t deep, but the pain radiates through my leg. As badly as I want to stop, I can’t.
My freedom is on the line.
I force myself up and stumble forward, limping through the trees and praying I find a road soon.
Air leaves my lungs when a crushing weight slams into my back.
I hit the ground hard. Hands seize my wrist, pinning them to the ground so tight I’m positive he wants to break my bones. He shoves my face into the dirt.
I try to fight him off as his heavy breath grazes the back of my neck.
Emilio’s mouth drifts to my ear. “You’ll pay for this, my deceitful wife. No one runs from me.”