Chapter 42
AMALIE
There’s not a chance in hell I’m sleeping.
Even though those were Roman’s orders the moment we arrived home.
“Tea. Bath. Bed. I will be indisposed.”
But every time I close my eyes, I’m back at the Art Institute, taking cover from gunfire, screams erupting all around me.
He joined me for the tea, but I could sense his mind was somewhere else. Then he and Andrei went downstairs to the basement, a part of the house I’ve never seen before.
No way I’m sleeping. Not after tonight.
I roll out of bed, my hair still a little wet from the bath. After throwing on some leggings and a sweatshirt, I slip out into the hallway. The mansion is vast and quiet in that eerie way it always is at night.
Not knowing what else to do, I pad over to Sasha’s room. His night-light spills a faint blue glow into the hallway through the slightly cracked door. I move to the door and ease it open just a little bit more.
Sasha’s sprawled sideways on his bed, one arm flung over his stuffed bear, curls damp with sweat.
Safe. My chest tightens so suddenly at the sight of him it almost hurts.
I step inside and sit on the edge of the bed, smoothing the blanket over him.
He stirs, frowning in his sleep, then relaxes again.
The sight of him like this—so small, so trusting, so vulnerable—does something deep and permanent to me.
I press my fingers briefly to my mouth.
God help me. I love this little man.
And Roman.
And not in the vague, professional way I’d told myself this would stay. Not as a temporary caretaker. It’s much deeper, scarier. The kind of love that puts roots in you.
Both the Barinov boys have filled a space in me I didn’t even realize was empty.
My mind drifts to Kyle, how he’d wanted me to come with him after the near-kidnapping, how he’s repeatedly tried to pull me away from Roman and out of this life. But I don’t want to be pulled out. I want to stay just where I am.
I can’t help but wonder what he thinks of all of this, how he’s processing the fact that he’s a cop, standing by while his little sister sinks deeper into the world of the most powerful criminal in the city.
There’s nothing I can do but push the thought out of my head.
After brushing the curls away from Sasha’s eyes one more time, I leave the room and quietly pad down the hall.
The house seems even quieter than it normally is in the twilight hours, and I realize how much Roman, even in his muted presence, fills the space.
I head down the stairs, thinking about the basement and wondering what the hell Roman and Andrei are doing down there. Why had they been so secretive about it?
I’m suddenly thirsty. I start toward the kitchen, pausing as soon as I reach the door. The faucet turns on, a drawer opens and closes. I place my fingertips on the swinging door and nudge it open just a bit.
Andrei stands at the sink, his back to me. His jacket is off, his sleeves rolled up. He scrubs something from his hand before reaching for a glass, which he fills with water and brings to his lips. In three deep swallows, the glass is drained. That’s when I notice something on his sleeve.
I gasp when I realize what it is.
Blood.
I flip through the moments of the night. Andrei had been uninjured when he’d left me with the cops to go find Roman. Why is there blood on his sleeve now? And why does he look like he’s taking a break from doing something physically intensive?
My pulse spikes and I freeze. Andrei turns slightly, and I duck back into the darkness of the hallway, my fingertips on the swinging door so it doesn’t move.
Through the crack, I watch as he cleans his hands, scrubbing methodically.
Then he turns and leaves the kitchen through the door that leads into the basement.
I should go back upstairs, lock myself in my room, and pretend I didn’t see anything. Instead, I keep my eyes on Andrei. He places his thumb on the thumbprint sensor and the door emits a light chime, then opens.
Carefully, I take my feet from my slippers so my steps will be quieter. Once they’re off, I slowly push open the swinging door and make my way across the kitchen toward the basement door. If Andrei turns, he’ll surely see me.
Andrei steps through. The door begins to close on its own. I pull in a deep breath, reach out, and grab it at the last second.
The breath slowly eases out of me, and I pull the door—which is solid as hell—open just enough to catch sight of Andrei descending a long flight of stairs. I wait until he reaches the bottom and turns the corner before following him.
The air changes immediately as I descend. Cooler. Sterile. The stairs lead to a part of the house I had no idea existed. Stainless steel walls. Bright overhead lighting. Clean in a way that makes my skin crawl.
I hear a scream. Then words spoken in Russian, hoarse and broken.
I swallow hard and edge closer, my heart practically in my damn throat. The door at the end of the corridor is half open. I approach and peer through.
Roman stands inside, jacket off, sleeves rolled up like Andrei’s. There’s a man in front of him in a chair, face bruised, lip split, eyes wild. Andrei stands to the side, silent and watchful.
Roman no longer looks like the man I was with earlier tonight, the one who held his palm gently at the small of my back.
He now looks like a living weapon.
My stomach churns. The room is small and square, bright and stainless steel like the rest of this part of the basement. On the wall are tools. I don’t even want to think about what they’re for. The otherwise clean floor is dotted with specks of blood.
I don’t recognize the man. Does he have something to do with what happened tonight? I pray that’s the case, and not that Roman secretly unwinds at night by torturing random men.
The man mutters something else in Russian. Roman shakes his head slowly and I don’t understand his response. The man adds something else, his tone sounding like he’s mocking Roman.
Roman’s fist balls, then slams into the man’s stomach. A whoosh of air flies out of him, and he coughs up blood.
More Russian from Roman before he steps toward the tools on the wall.
Any color that was left on the man’s face instantly drains.
Mine too.
Is Roman really going to torture this man? The idea makes me sick to my stomach.
Changing his mind, Roman turns from the tools and takes out his gun. He raises the pistol, pointing it directly at the man’s forehead.
I push open the door and step into the room. “Roman, don’t.” The words slice through the room just as surely as a gunshot.
Roman turns to me instantly, horror and surprise flashing in his eyes. “Amalie,” he says, his tone sharp and firm. “You should not be here.”
“What is this? What are you doing?”
He glances to the side for a moment, trying to figure out how to answer me.
“Is this man… was he part of the shooting?”
“Yes. I’m getting answers.”
He moves toward me, putting himself between me and the man in the chair. Andrei approaches, not saying a word.
“Go upstairs. Now,” Roman tells me.
“I won’t,” I reply, shaking my head. “Not if this is your way of getting answers.”
The man in the chair laughs, a sound of manic desperation. “She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know anything.”
Roman doesn’t take his eyes off me. “Amalie, look at me.”
Before I realize what’s happening, the man lunges and chaos ensues. The chair tips, hitting the steel floor with a bang. A blur rushes toward Roman. The metal of Roman’s gun flashes. Then, everything seems like it slows to an impossible crawl.
I scream.
Andrei rushes in.
The man pulls the gun from Roman’s grip, raising it in my direction. Before he can pull the trigger, Roman grabs his wrist with one hand and yanks the gun back with the other.
The pistol is just inches away from the man’s forehead. The gunshot is deafening in the enclosed space. The barrel flashes, the smell of gunpowder filling the room.
The man collapses to the floor, heavy and final.
My ears ring. My knees feel as if they may give out. Roman is suddenly in front of me, hands gripping my shoulders.
“Are you hurt?” he asks frantically.
I crane my neck a bit to look at the body, to make sure the man is dead. But he blocks me.
“Amalie, look only at me. You do not need to see that.”
He glances to Andrei, who responds with a silent nod. Roman then leads me out of the room.
I shake my head, numb. “That man. He… he was going to—”
“I know,” he says, his voice now calm and even. “I know. But he didn’t.”
I don’t know what to say. First, the shooting at the Institute, then, walking in on the father of my child shooting a man in the head.
It’s unreal. But it’s my life now.
“Sometimes,” I begin, the words pouring out before I can stop them, “I worry that you’re a monster.”
Roman exhales, long and controlled. Then, very carefully, he cups my face and looks me straight in the eye.“You are right.”
At first, I’m not sure I heard him correctly. “I’m what?”
“You’re right. I am a monster.”
I don’t know how to respond. I hold his gaze, which even in that moment I can’t help but recognize as impossibly handsome.
“I am a monster,” he says. “But I’m your monster. I have killed. But now, I only kill for you. To protect you, and to protect Sasha.”
I should recoil.
I don’t.
Instead, I reach up and cradle his face between my hands, thumbs brushing the stubble at his jaw. Tears spill down my cheeks.
He’s a killer. He’s a monster. But he’s mine.
One week. That’s how much time I’d asked for to make myself ready to tell him. But as I stand there, his face in my hands, I realize this is the moment.
“There’s one more person you’re going to have to protect,” I whisper.
He cocks his head to the side in curiosity. I take his hand from my face and place it on my belly. His eyes widen.
“I’m pregnant. And we’re going to need you, Roman.”