7. Polina
Polina
I wake up feeling almost human.
The ache in my ribs is still there, but duller now. The fog in my head has lifted. I'm clean, rested, and for the first time in weeks, not actively terrified.
I sit up slowly, testing my body. Everything protests, but nothing screams.
That’s a good sign.
The room is empty. I wonder if last night was real or some fever dream conjured by exhaustion and trauma.
Did he really hold me? Kiss my forehead? Climb into bed beside me like I deserve comfort?
My face heats at the memory.
I need to stop the schoolgirl fantasizing. He's probably just being decent. That's all.
Except...no one has ever been decent to me before. Not like that.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet sinking into plush carpet.
What should I do now? I don’t know the rules. Am I supposed to stay here?
I don’t want to be any more trouble than I’ve already been, but no one told me the rules. And I’m curious.
I pad to the door and ease it open. The hallway stretches in both directions, all dark wood and expensive art. I pick left, following the sound of voices drifting up from somewhere below.
Male voices.
Deep, clipped, and professional sounding.
I creep toward the sound. To a room with the door slightly ajar. I press my eye to the crack like a child spying on adults.
He's there.
He stands in what looks like a study, surrounded by men in dark suits. They're all focused on him, their body language unmistakable—deference, respect, and maybe even a little fear.
He commands the room without raising his voice, without even trying. Absolute authority radiates from him.
My stomach goes all fluttery.
"You're sure about this, Dante?” one of the men asks him.
Dante. That's his name.
"I'm sure."
One of the men—tall and broad, with sharp cheekbones and cold eyes —leans against the desk. “Volkov won't like it," he says.
“Volkov doesn't have to like it." Dante's voice is calm, final. "There's an unspoken rule that wives and children are off-limits. Both our organization and the Volkov Bratva honor that. Marrying her is the cleanest solution."
Marrying her.
Is he talking about himself? Is he planning to get married? My heart sinks at the very thought.
"It's going to complicate things."
"Things are already complicated."
The broad man smirks. “It could work…but it’s insane."
Dante doesn't smile. "Luca, I don't pay you to tell me when I'm being insane. I pay you to make sure my insanity works."
"Fair enough."
My hands grip the banister so tight my knuckles go white.
I think he's going to marry someone.
A sharp, ugly feeling twists my insides.
Jealousy.
Which is ridiculous. I have no claim on him. He pulled me out of hell, gave me a bed, held me while I cried—but none of that gives me the right to feel anything about his life or who he marries.
Except I do.
God, I do.
I imagine him holding someone else the way he held me last night. Kissing someone else's forehead. Whispering promises to someone else in the dark.
My throat tightens.
Then another thought slithers in, unbidden and shameful.
What would it be like to have sex with him?
Heat floods my face, my neck, between my thighs.
I've never been with a man. Never been kissed on the lips. Never felt the things I felt when his hands were in my hair, when his lips pressed against my skin.
But if it's him...
If it's Dante...
I think I want it.
I think I want him.
The realization plows into me so hard I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning aloud.
“That’s all for this morning,” Dante says.
I scramble back from the door frame, heart pounding, looking for somewhere to hide. There's an enormous potted tree to my left—I duck behind it just as the men file out.
I press my back against the wall, holding my breath, as the men pass.
Then silence.
I wait. Count to ten.
Still quiet.
Relief floods me, and I peek around the tree.
Dante is standing in the hall, back to me, hands in his pockets.
Without turning around, he says, "Come have breakfast with me, Polina."
I freeze.
He knew.
He knew I was there the whole time.
My face burns as I step out, smoothing my nightgown like that'll somehow make this less humiliating.
"I'm sorry," I say quickly. "I didn't mean to—"
“I told you not to apologize." He turns now, and his eyes find mine. Dark. Intent. "You're not a prisoner here. You can go wherever you want."
"Oh."
"But if you're going to eavesdrop," he adds, the corner of his mouth quirking just slightly, "you might as well hear the whole conversation over breakfast."
He walks past me toward the stairs, and I follow, my pulse racing.
The kitchen is enormous—all gleaming marble and stainless steel.
Dante gestures to one of the stools at the island. "Sit."
I perch on the edge, hands folded in my lap, while he moves around the kitchen with surprising ease. He's changed since last night—dark jeans, a black T-shirt that clings to his shoulders in a way that makes my mouth water.
He opens the fridge and peers inside. "What would you like for breakfast?"
The question catches me off guard. "I'll eat whatever you allow."
He goes very still. Then he closes the fridge and turns to face me, his expression unreadable.
"I'm asking what you want."
My stomach twists. I don't understand what kind of answer he's looking for. There must be a right one, but I can't figure it out.
"Whatever you'd like me to eat."
His jaw tightens. He braces both hands on the counter across from me, and I can see him choosing his words carefully.
"Polina. I'm not going to tell you what to eat. You’ll have to decide for yourself. What do you want?"
Is this a test?
"I don't—" My voice comes out too small. "I don't know."
"Eggs?" he offers. "Pancakes? Bacon, sausage, fruit, cereal?"
Papa never let me choose. He dictated everything—what I wore, where I went, what I ate.
"Whatever you want me to eat," I repeat, desperate now. "Really. I'm not picky."
Dante exhales slowly through his nose. He rounds the island and crouches in front of my stool so we're eye level.
"Hey." His voice is softer now. Gentler. "This isn't a trick. There's no wrong answer. I just want to know what you like."
What I like.
My throat tightens. "I...I don't..."
"Take your time. Think about it.”
I bite my lip, fighting back the stupid, embarrassing tears threatening to spill. He must think I’m a child. He's being so kind, and I'm ruining it by being difficult.
What do I like?
A memory surfaces—hazy, golden, almost dreamlike. Sitting at a kitchen table much smaller than this one. Sunlight streaming through lace curtains. My mother, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, flipping pancakes on a griddle while I swung my legs and giggled.
"Can I have extra syrup, Mama?"
"Of course, milaya. As many as you want."
The memory fractures. My mother died when I was four. After that, there were no more pancakes. Too many carbs. Too much sugar. Papa said I'd get fat, and fat girls are worthless.
So I learned not to want them.
"Pancakes," I whisper.
Dante's eyes search mine. "Yeah?"
“I…I like pancakes. With syrup." My voice cracks. “I think.”
"Then pancakes it is," he says decisively.
He stands, squeezes my shoulder once, and turns back to the stove.
I watch him work—cracking eggs, measuring flour, heating a pan—and a tight knot inside me unravels just a little.
When he sets a plate in front of me—three perfect golden circles, butter melting on top, syrup pooled in a little dish on the side—I stare at it like it's a painting in a museum.
"Go on," he says. "Before they get cold."
I cut a small piece, dip it in syrup, and bring it to my mouth.
Oh.
Oh god.
It's sweet and fluffy and warm, and the taste of it is heaven.
I take another bite. Then another.
By the fourth bite, I'm actually groaning.
They're the best thing I’ve tasted in forever.
Dante doesn't say anything. He just pours himself coffee, leans against the counter, and watches me.