Chapter 8
Unknown Number.
I know it’s Dasha because that’s our time.
I hurriedly hit the Accept button. “Hello?”
“Liliya,” Dasha breathes out on the other line.
“Where the hell are you?” I grip the phone to my ear, pull myself out of bed, and limp to the bedroom door to make sure it’s locked. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m fine,” she rushes out, as if on a time limit. “What are they saying there … about me?”
I drop back onto the bed, crossing my legs, and my pulse races. “Aleksy is losing his absolute shit. I’m sure he already has people out looking for you.” A chill runs over my skin when I think of what they’ll do if they find her.
Last night, after Emilio left, I locked the door, got into bed, and checked my phone to find ten texts from Aleksy.
Six ordered me to keep Emilio happy.
Four asked if I’d heard from Dasha.
None asked me how I was doing or thanked me for my fucking service of marrying a fucking killer and possibly dying.
There were no texts or calls from my mother.
“How mad is he about canceling the wedding?” she asks.
My blood turns cold. “They didn’t cancel it.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re talking to the new Mrs. Emilio Lastro.”
“Oh, Liliya,” she says, guilt clear in her voice. “I’m so sorry.”
I don’t doubt her guilt, but she knew this would happen. Aleksy would never have just canceled the wedding.
I’m not angry with her though.
I sigh. “Where are you?” I say, hating that my voice shakes.
“Liliya,” she says around a longer sigh, “you know I can’t tell you that.”
“Who are you with?”
“I can’t tell you that either.”
“Can you at least promise to stay in touch?”
“Of course.”
I perk up at the sound of a voice in the background.
A man’s voice.
I press the phone harder against my ear. “Who is—”
Dasha speaks over him and me. “I have to go. Talk soon.” She ends the call.
I toss the phone to the side and roll my neck as tension tightens every muscle. Shutting my eyes, I wonder if she’d known about Aleksy’s murder plan or if he’d sprung it on her like he did me.
Maybe that’s why she ran.
Now, I have to decide whether I’ll run … or do as my family said and kill him.
I’ve never plotted to kill anyone before.
In less than twenty-four hours, I married a killer and then was told I needed to basically become a hit woman.
I’ve never even considered killing someone.
Not even the doctor who ruined my career and got me fired.
I spend another two hours in bed, hating every second of my new life, before getting up to change my foot bandage. Emilio thankfully left the supplies in the bathroom before storming out last night.
Sitting on the closed toilet seat, I unwrap the dressing and clean my wound. The pain has eased, and there’s no sign of infection. I rewrap it, stand, and start unpacking my toiletries.
When I’m finished, I change into a black romper and make my way downstairs to explore my new prison.
It’s quiet and empty. A yellow sticky note is on the front door, and I grab and read it.
There are alarms and cameras everywhere.
Try to run, and I’ll catch you.
Another romantic note from the hubby.
I crumple the note in my hand and shove it inside my pocket before checking out the window for Emilio’s SUV.
It’s gone.
Good riddance.
My new home may be quiet, but it’s not peaceful. An eeriness follows me with each step.
I peek into the parlor room, where there’s intricate wallpaper, a stained glass Tiffany chandelier, and a sofa covered with a dust cloth.
As I keep walking, I pass a bathroom and a billiards room with a pool table.
I don’t stop my search until I reach a library. Standing in the doorway, I take in the room with awe. Moss-green walls and shelves of the same color take up most of the space. Crown molding traces the ceiling.
As I inch deeper into the room, I inhale the smell of dust and leather. An outdated computer sits on the desk in the center of the room.
I walk around, running my fingers along the book spines.
So many classics.
There’s even a shelf of books I spent my childhood reading.
Junie B. Jones. The Baby-Sitters Club. Anne of Green Gables. Twilight. The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. The Hunger Games.
I laugh softly while grabbing a Junie B. Jones book before collapsing on the faded green sofa, curling my legs beneath me. I flip through the pages and make myself comfortable.
All my troubles fade as I read. I forget about Emilio, my marriage, murder, Dasha.
It’s just me and fiction.
When I’m finished, I grab another book and sit back down.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
My heart races as I slowly drag my gaze toward the doorway.
Emilio stands there, jaw clenched, with revulsion on his face.
He’s pissed I’m in here, and I’m about to pay the consequences for it.