Chapter 37
AMALIE
Chicago slides past the windows in a blur of lights, everything softened by the tinted glass and Andrei’s absurdly smooth handling. I run my fingers over the door panel, the leather cool and stitched so perfectly it almost looks painted on.
“This car is ridiculous,” I say.
Roman, looking so handsome in his tux that I want to scream, offers a barely-there smile in response. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should. What is it?”
“Mercedes Maybach,” he says. “Armored. Designed so you hardly feel like you’re moving.”
I glance around. The effect of the interior is like being in a dark, sleek spaceship. We might as well be driving in a vacuum for how quiet it is.
“Very on-brand for you,” I say.
“It’s good for thinking. Nothing derails a train of thought like a bumpy ride.”
“Makes you feel a little untouchable, too, huh?”
“Not untouchable, protected.”
His eyes move over me, tracing my curves. His stoic expression breaks just a bit, the corner of his mouth curling. “Speaking of untouchable, I hope that’s not a word that applies to you tonight.”
Something warm curls in my chest. “Wow, another joke from you. I like it.” He chuckles.
I shift in my seat, smoothing my hands over my gown, suddenly aware of how much of my body is exposed. Soft ivory silk with a neckline that draws attention to my breasts, and the way it hugs my curves… I’ve never worn anything like it before.
“They are rare. Enjoy them when they happen.” His eyes glint mischievously. “You’re going to be a distraction tonight.”
“Hey, you’re the one who helped pick out the dress.”
“Indeed I am. But I wasn’t thinking of how difficult it will be to make the rounds while you stand at my side looking like that.”
The Maybach glides to a stop in front of the Art Institute of Chicago, all white stone with giant lion statues and banners announcing the Spring Benefactors’ Gala. Cameras flash as crowds make their way up the towering stairs. I can’t believe what I’m seeing.
“Are you ready?” he asks.
My eyes are locked on the scene outside the window. “As ready as I’m going to be.”
“Come. It will be a fine time.”
He opens the door and steps out. He’s instantly composed, despite the crowd of photographers that gather around him, snapping photos. The idea of being under the public eye makes me want to stay in the car.
When Roman turns to me, offering his hand, I suddenly feel like I can do anything. “Come.”
I take a deep, steeling breath, then step out. Cameras flash in my direction, the effect disorienting. When I feel Roman’s hand move to the small of my back, steadying me, claiming me, I feel better instantly.
“Roman!” a voice slurs cheerfully.
A man stumbles toward us, red-cheeked and already well-past drunk. He’s dressed expensively, but the loose tie and lopsided smile make it clear he arrived early and hit the bar hard. His eyes land on me and linger.
“Well, well, well,” he says, looking me up and down. “Who do we have here?”
My stomach tightens as his hand reaches toward me. Roman smoothly catches his wrist mid-air, pressing it flat against the Maybach. The cameras are still on us.
Is he going to break this man’s arm in front of them?
The guy’s eyes widen as Roman presses the middle of his wrist, no doubt applying just enough pressure to send a painful message.
“It is not polite to touch women without their consent,” he says. His tone is calm, but there’s an undeniable undercurrent of menace.
The man’s eyes flash, as if he’s just realized what he’s done. “Roman, I was just—”
“Mr. Barinov. And consider yourself lucky that you did nothing you would need to apologize for.”
“I… yes, Mr. Barinov.” Subdued, just like that.
Andrei appears, polite and efficient. “Sir,” he says, guiding the man away. “Perhaps I can fetch you a ride.”
The man mutters something incoherently as he’s guided away.
I catch my breath, the cameras still on us. I wonder how much of what happened they actually caught, dreading what the headlines will say.
“Are you alright?” Roman asks, his eyes searching my face as his hand returns to the small of my back.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“Excellent,” he says. “Let us go inside.”
He leads me forward, and I’m able to push the strange event out of my mind. Roman and Andrei handled it perfectly, getting that prick away without causing a scene.
We ascend the stairs, the massive doors opened wide. The museum is stunning—high ceilings, marble floors, modern lighting. Everyone looks so important. I suddenly feel very aware of my body again.
Roman keeps me close, his hand steady on the small of my back. He leans down, his voice low. “They are staring.”
As I glance around, it feels like the entire crowd is looking right at me. I know that isn’t true, of course, but enough eyes are on me that there might as well be a spotlight.
“Should I be worried?”
“No,” he says quickly. “They’re jealous.”
I laugh under my breath. “Of you?”
“Of me,” he confirms. “You are on my arm. They’re wondering how a man like me has a woman like you at his side.”
It sounds silly to me that people would look at Roman and think he was the lucky one. But the seriousness of his tone makes me believe it, if only for a second.
My stomach flips in a good way. “Something tells me you’re enjoying jealousy.”
“I am,” he says without a shred of hesitation. “And knowing you’re mine makes it even sweeter. But more than that, I’m enjoying watching you realize you belong here.”
My heart flutters, and I smile.
We pause near one of the sculptures.
“You know this one?” he asks.
“I do. It’s one of my favorites, actually. It’s called Bird in Space.”
“It’s quite something.”
A donor approaches, and Roman handles him with smooth charm and social precision. Roman glides his hand over my hip when the man walks away. I close my eyes for a moment, savoring the feeling.
“It’s funny,” I say, gesturing to the sculpture, “people argue about this, whether or not it’s even supposed to be a bird. But in my opinion, that’s kind of the point.”
My eyes are on the sculpture. But Roman’s eyes are on me.
“You see things others don’t, Amalie.”
“I just have an eye for art, that’s all.”
He shakes his head. “No, that is not all. Far from it.”
A moment of silence passes.
“Are you ready to mingle?” he asks.
“Sure.”
We turn from the sculpture and move into the crowd. I feel more at ease, taking in the people, the soft music.
“I feel like I’m overdressed and under dressed at the same time,” I say.
He chuckles. “You are exactly perfect. Which is why no one can stop looking at you.”
I roll my eyes, secretly loving it. “You’re impossible.”
“I am honest. And I’m the luckiest man in this room.”
We move deeper into the gala crowd, people greeting Roman, Roman introducing me to them. It’s awkward at first, but with every greeting, every handshake, I feel a little more at ease and less out of place.
“Perhaps the dress was a mistake,” he says as we move to another knot of people.
“Oh?”
“It makes it very hard to focus on philanthropy.”
I laugh, nerves easing despite myself.
A bit later, standing in front of a massive glass installation, he leans in and says, “Every man here wants what I have.”
“And what’s that?”
“You.”
I stop thinking about how I look or whether or not I’m fitting in. I just stay where I am, right at his side.
“I’m glad I came,” I say quietly.
He smiles, slow and certain. “Me too.”
The shift in the room is subtle at first.
There’s no grand announcement, no fanfare. Just a change in the vibe of the crowd; conversations lower in volume and eyes sharpen as a different sort of presence filters in through the towering doors.
These men don’t look like donors or bankers.
Their suits are immaculate, but they carry themselves like soldiers.
Dozens of them, all entering the place like they own it.
I recognize the way they scan the room, similar to the way Andrei does, looking for the exits and if anything appears out of the ordinary.
I know who these men are: Bratva.
My chest tightens and suddenly I feel very visible. I’m acutely aware that these men aren’t like the other people I’ve been meeting—they’re killers.
Roman senses my discomfort immediately, like he always does. But he doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me. And that’s exactly what I need.
It’s the same careful, steady look he gives to Sasha when the boy seems a little overwhelmed. The power of his gaze seems to make time stop, to make everything go away except for the two of us.
My breath steadies. My spine straightens. I remember where I am.
The men gather nearby, sorting into different groups.
“Different Bratvas,” Roman explains, as if reading my mind. “Don’t worry, they’ll play nice tonight. They know the consequences if they don’t.” He gazes at the men, then glances at me. “I need to say a few words, and I would like you to be at my side when I do.”
“Okay.”
Roman moves toward the men, their eyes locking onto him—and me—instantly. I notice the other guests stiffen, seeming to know who these men are and what they represent.
The space seems to rearrange itself around Roman. The crowd parts, the rest of the guests understanding that whatever is about to happen is not for them. They shuffle away, taking their conversations to other parts of the room.
Roman is relaxed. Unhurried. And unmistakably the center of gravity. Only he could stand in the middle of a crowd of killers and be so damn composed.
“Gentlemen.” He doesn’t speak loudly. His deep voice is resonant enough to carry through.
“I’m glad to see all of you,” he begins.
“Truly. Your presence tonight and your generosity does not go unnoticed. This charity matters to me. It matters to many children in this city. It matters to my son. And I respect those who understand the value of giving something back when the world has blessed him or her with so much.”
A few smiles. A few nods. I can’t help but grin at his ability to butter these guys up.
Roman lets a beat pass before adding, almost conversationally, “It is odd to think that if everything in my company proceeds as planned, this time next year I’ll be a stranger to you all.”
The energy shifts, though not in a bad way. I can practically feel the relief. There’s a subtle loosening of shoulders, faint exhales from men who have been competing against Roman for years. Him stepping aside doesn’t threaten them; it gives them opportunity.
Roman knows it. And that’s what tonight is about, I realize. He’s giving them the gift of knowing he’s leaving their world behind.
His hand returns to the small of my back once more. “This,” he says, turning slightly toward me, “is Amalie Denning.”
Every pair of eyes in the circle turn to me. It takes all the strength I have not to shrink.
“My woman,” he finishes.
The words land clean and sharp.
I bite my lower lip because it’s the only thing I can do. Especially when I remember I’m carrying an enormous secret.
“But I didn’t invite you here tonight to monologue. Enjoy the evening, the future is looking bright. I assume you all cannot wait for it to get started.”
There are nods and murmurs from the men. Roman guides me through the crowd and over to the bar.
“I believe this calls for a toast,” he says as the bartender approaches. “Please, two Dom Per—”
My hand shoots to his wrist. He turns, eyebrows arching, questioning. “Yes?”
“I want to stay clear-headed tonight, if you don’t mind.”
He nods without argument. “Two tonics with lime.”
Within seconds, the bartender is passing the drinks to us. I take mine, the chill of the glass grounding me.
“You didn’t warn me.”
“No,” he agrees. “I just decided.”
I look up at him, searching his face. “To make it official?”
“Yes.”
It should scare me that Roman has claimed me so publicly. But it doesn’t. In fact, it makes my knees a little weak.
“You alright?” he asks.
“I’m just a bit overwhelmed.”
He nods. “That’s fair.”
We stand by the bar for a moment, the gala humming around us. I sense some of the Bratva men stealing glances at me like they want to get a good look at the woman who has so captured Roman’s attention.
“There is something else,” he announces.
“What?”
“Your contract. If you recall, you signed on for a two-month period. That time is nearly up.”
I stiffen a bit. “Yes, it is.”
“I don’t want to give you up.”
My chest tightens. “I don’t want to leave.”
“Good,” he says simply.
He raises his glass. “To the future then. Our future.”
“I’ll drink to that.”