Chapter 5
Nadia
By the time the armored black SUV rolled through the towering wrought-iron gates of Sokolov Manor, night had fallen completely.
Beyond the windows, towering firs stood like two rows of silent death sentries, cutting the estate off from Chicago's bustling downtown chaos.
I shifted restlessly against the leather seat.
The adrenaline that had flooded my system back at the church was draining fast, replaced by a bone-deep ache and stomach cramps that twisted my gut.
The car stopped. A suited man standing at the front entrance opened my door.
I'd braced myself for another round of psychological torture from Roman Sokolov, or some twisted "wedding night" ritual. After all, just two hours ago, the bastard had crushed my last hope of escape in that blood-soaked, glass-strewn hallway.
But the son of a bitch never showed.
"Pakhan has urgent family business tonight. Ma'am, please come with me. I'll show you around first." The woman who greeted me was a stern middle-aged housekeeper in a dark gray uniform—Sofia Petrova.
My shoulders, which had been locked tight all evening, finally sagged a little. I let out a quiet breath of relief. Thank God. If I had to look at him right now, I'd grab a steak knife off the dining table and shove it through his throat.
"Thank you." I nodded and dragged my exhausted body after her.
Jesus Christ. This wasn't some manor—this was a modern fortress.
Through the massive double redwood doors, I walked into an entrance hall with ceilings nearly thirty feet high.
A huge crystal chandelier cast cold, extravagant light.
The floor was solid Italian marble in black and white.
Oil paintings that looked worth a fortune lined both sides of the corridor.
Even though I'd grown up in the Cross house and seen plenty of expensive things, I couldn't help but be quietly stunned by this obscene display of wealth.
Cold, sterile opulence everywhere. And armed Russian guards lurking in every shadow.
"First floor is common areas—dining room and parlor. East wing is your private quarters." Mrs. Petrova walked ahead, her tone flat and mechanical. "Without Pakhan's permission, the west wing corridor and basement are strictly off-limits."
I shrugged and followed her on aching heels. Whatever. I had zero interest in exploring some mob boss's secret torture chamber.
We climbed a spiral staircase covered in thick Persian rugs to the second floor, then turned down a quiet hallway. Just before we reached the end, something caught my eye—a door that stuck out like a sore thumb.
It was a heavy brass door, completely out of place among the elegant carved wood doors around it. And it had a goddamn mechanical combination lock hanging on it.
I stopped, my instincts making me frown. "What's in there? Why does a residential wing need that kind of lock?"
Mrs. Petrova froze mid-step. She followed my gaze, her expression unchanged.
"That used to be Miss Carter's room." Her words came quickly. "It's been sealed."
Miss Carter?
I raised an eyebrow. A gangster tyrant's manor with a woman's room sealed shut like a vault? Was she his former mistress? Or some poor soul he'd tortured to death?
"Who was she?" I probed.
"We only do our jobs here. We don't ask questions we shouldn't. It's for your own good, ma'am." Mrs. Petrova's tone went stiff. She cut off the conversation and quickened her pace.
I stared at that closed brass door for two more seconds, then snorted and looked away.
Who cares. This house was stuffed with secrets like a fancy mausoleum. The only thing I needed to worry about was how to survive here.
Mrs. Petrova led me into an absurdly large bedroom, then bowed out respectfully.
The second the door clicked shut, every ounce of strength drained from my body. I kicked off the flats I'd changed into and collapsed spread-eagle onto the king-size bed with its Egyptian cotton sheets.
This was insane. From a crappy studio apartment to a bullet-riddled church to being the legal wife of Chicago's underground tyrant—it all felt like some deranged B-movie horror flick.
I fished my phone out of my bag, which was lying crumpled on the carpet, and dialed a familiar number.
"Holy shit! Nadia!" The video call connected and my best friend Riley's smoky-eyed face filled the screen, her voice nearly blowing out my eardrum. "You're alive! I just saw 'Century Mob Wedding Shootout' trending on Twitter and almost went to the morgue to ID you!"
"Still breathing, but not by much." I rolled my eyes and rubbed my temples irritably. "Those lunatics opened fire right in the church. It was hell."
"Are you hurt? What about that gangster boss, Sokolov? Does he look like some man-eating Siberian grizzly?" Riley stared anxiously at the screen.
Unbidden, those dark brown eyes flashed through my mind. And his thigh forcing its way between mine in that dark storage room, the shocking heat of him.
"He's ten thousand times more dangerous than any Siberian grizzly." I bit down hard, shoving that damned flutter in my chest back down. "Listen, Riley, I'm trapped. There are armed guards everywhere. I'm like a hamster in a cage."
"Bitch, you need to be careful." Riley dropped her usual sass, her eyes going worried. "Don't go head-to-head with them. Your little porcupine attitude won't do shit against killers. Stay safe. Find a way to survive, okay?"
"I know. I will."
After I hung up, I took a deep breath and dragged myself off the bed.
I walked to the heavy bedroom door and slammed the deadbolt home, then dragged an armchair over and wedged it hard under the handle. Only then did I feel a tiny sliver of security.
I crouched down and opened my old suitcase. At the very bottom, beneath a pile of unremarkable clothes, I pulled out a makeup bag with a hidden compartment.
I unzipped the false bottom.
A dinner knife I'd swiped in the chaos. Not very sharp, but small and ordinary—wouldn't draw attention.
And a high-voltage stun gun disguised as a hairbrush. I always kept it on me. I'd bought it last year from some guy in a slum shanty. They called it the black market. Maybe it was.
Roman Sokolov thought buying me meant he could control me like he controlled his mafia empire? Dream on. If he tried sneaking into my room in the middle of the night, I'd make damn sure he got a taste of a few hundred thousand volts.
I shoved the knife and stun gun under my pillow, double-checked all my "defenses," then burrowed into the massive bed and clutched the covers tight.
I looked up at the room. Too big. The emptiness made me anxious. Outside the window, the darkness spread like a huge black sheet trying to swallow all the light.
My chest seized. My breathing went shallow. That locked equipment room door, the suffocating darkness where I couldn't breathe—it all started screaming in my head again.
Panicking, I reached out and slapped on every lamp—bedside, wall sconces, everything.
Harsh warm yellow light flooded the room instantly, chasing every fear-hiding shadow into oblivion.
I gulped air, staring hard at the chandelier overhead until my heartbeat slowed. I curled myself into a defensive ball, palm pressed tight against the cold blade under my pillow.
In a room blazing bright as daylight, I forced my eyes closed, fighting off the endless chill this bloodthirsty manor radiated, and finally fell into a heavy sleep.