Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
QUINN
Aknock on my suite door should have worry pooling in my stomach, but I’d be more concerned if the hotel called up to my suite.
It would be a sure sign Sergey Petrov has no respect on the streets.
Honestly, if his people couldn’t bypass security measures and pull favors, it would tell me more about how others view him than if I did a poll on the streets.
My call to Victor was a test of both Petrov’s prominence as a criminal underworld figure and a reminder to my father of what I am willing to do.
Opening the door, I find three stone-faced guards surrounding the doorway, and one of them takes a step forward. “Ty poydesh' s nami.”
Google Translator picks up his words. Reading the screen, “you are to come with us,” has me smirking.
I type in what I want to say back to him and press play. The robotic voice speaks in Russian. “Kogda vspomnish', s kem govorish', i svoi manery, postuchi yeshcho raz.”
No matter how badly my phone butchers it, the message that they need to use their damn manners, and remember who I am, is heard and understood.
Because these thugs are nothing more than paid monkeys, I slam the door to remind them of their place, then use the security latch to make sure my door stays closed.
I stay close though, listening as one of the men calls someone for a while until I hear how easily and quickly he rolled over. Good, hired help with loyalty is hard to find.
Leaving him trying to appease his boss, I do another walk-through of my suite, making sure I’ve got everything before touching up my lipstick and pulling on my jacket.
The classic Chanel suit is going to be a staple in my wardrobe for the next twelve months, as are the matching heels.
I hate them; they’re too tight and offer no comfort.
In my previous life, I’d never wear something like this, but here, while I’m pretending to be Victor’s dutiful daughter, I’ll look and act the part.
The final check I want to do before opening the door again is walking into the morning sunshine and making sure the makeup on my hand is no more noticeable than the bite I’m trying to hide. There’s certainly no denying how silver it is now.
I swear I can feel his claiming bite possessively wrapping around me more now I’m in Russia, but at the same time, I’ve barely slept and am as nervous as a black cat.
It’s covered, and I’m ready. I return to wait near the front door, and it isn’t long before there’s another knock. It’s not as sharp or impatient this time.
Swinging the door open, I smile up at him pressing play on my phone. “Dobroye utro. U vas vso khorosho?”
“Da.” His yes is simple, not friendly, but it’s a damn sight better than the way he spoke to me before.
I flip to English because while I need to get used to Russian, they also need to get used to how I speak. “Who are you?”
“Work for Mr. Petrov. We take you to him.”
Intentionally offering him my left hand, since he’s acting so amicably, the ugly diamond engagement ring on my finger blinds him, also reminding him who I am—his boss's fiancée.
Seeing my ring and the way they all are forced to acknowledge it brings a smile to my face. Instantly, my thoughts are on Santiago and what he did to my ring not that long ago. Back when life was simpler, back when he was just a beautiful Alpha with a magnificent cock and matching knot.
But the guard leaves me hanging, refusing to take my hand. Instead, he keeps his mouth shut and gives me a sharp nod. Admittedly, I didn’t particularly want to touch him either. The thought of touching any other Alpha gives me the creeps.
Stepping aside, I point at the obvious. “I’m ready to leave.”
I grab the smallest cases and wheel them behind me as I walk out into the hotel corridor. And then I keep walking in front of them the whole way through the lobby.
There's a convoy of cars waiting, and another man, dressed similarly to the other three, is holding my door open. His smile is more genuine, and he spits something at the men behind me as he rushes to take my bags.
“Primite moi izvineniya ot imeni g-na Petrova, on privetstvuyet vas u sebya doma.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak a lot of Russian. If you say it again, I can use this.” I hold my phone up and show him the app.
“I welcoming you to Mr. Petrov’s home. He cannot be here.”
I tip my head as thanks, sliding into the back seat of the BMW 7 Series.
The car looks brand new, and the new-leather smell confirms it.
The driver doesn’t speak a lot as we make our way back down the road I was on last night, but he does point out a few places for coffee or restaurants that Mr. Petrov frequents.
As we pull into the driveway, the gates are already open, and he pulls to a stop at a gatehouse, where he waits for a guard to wave him through.
“Miss Hernandez.”
“Miss Garcia,” I correct. “For security, I use a different name.” I leave it at that.
There’s no way in hell I’m going into the reason I chose to use my grandmother's maiden name. Changing my surname from Hernandez to Garcia when I left home was done to remind Victor of the deep loathing and mistrust my grandmother always had towards him. My mother was blinded by love, and by the time she could see things properly, he’d ruined her.
But by then, she’d made peace with her mother by admitting she was right too.
At my grandmother’s and mother’s urging, I lived life with my eyes wide open, seeing the potential good and bad in our world, which is how I stumbled upon what I did.
“Of course, of course.” He reaches over and passes a card. “Miss Garcia, I am Boris, your driver. Mr. Petrov say any time you need to go out, I drive you.”
“Spasibo. Ya tsenyu eto.” I try to thank him, but as soon as I say the words, I’m aware I butcher the pronunciation.
“You are welcome,” he answers before repeating what I said, so I can hear how it should sound.
He pulls the car to a stop, so my door is in line with the entrance. Small tingles race up the back of my neck, all but confirming I’m being watched, despite there being no one on the grand staircase and the front doors being closed.
I have no clue why he’s going out of his way to be friendly.
It’s a standard tactic and an easy way of keeping an eye on someone.
I don’t react to what he said, in case he really is just trying to be nice.
Armed with the feeling someone is keeping tabs on my movements, I go with mild and meek.
At least then I have the advantage of surprise if I need to react any differently.
Knocking at the front door, I’m greeted by silence, which is obviously the next phase of the game being played.
Eventually, the door swings open and a stunning blonde answers.
She’s very beautiful, like a catwalk model, except her eyes are like shards of ice, matching her icy veneer.
She doesn’t say anything as she takes her sweet-ass time looking me up and down.
Shockingly, or not, considering how toxic she’s acting, her scent reminds me of the fragrance, Poison. I have to breathe through my mouth, so I don’t choke on the noxious fumes.
In a move that reeks of her being territorial, she brushes her right hand down her couture dress, making the diamond tennis bracelets on her wrist clink together. Of course, she’s holding her hand in such a way that it’s nearly impossible to miss the diamond ring on her finger.
Given the very expensive clothes she’s wearing, the way her appearance is immaculate, and the jewelry she’s flashing, it’s not hard to figure out that whoever she is, she’s into my fiancé. Or he’s into her.
But I can be a dick too. I learned from the best, after all.
I snatch her hand and twist it slightly. “Wow, we have very similar rings. I wish I had yours. The smaller size would be so much more practical. This one is so large, it”—I wave my engagement ring around—“gets caught on everything. Are you here to show me to my suite?”
The docile act was always going to be a hard one to maintain. And, really, the sooner Petrov’s mistress knows I’m not going to be treated like shit, the better.
“Go there.” She points a finger across the room while staring through me.
It’s petty, the way we have a standoff, neither of us moving, but she folds first with a dramatic roll of her eyes. And I take the win with a triumphant smirk.
Her heels clack loudly against the hardwood floor as she struts through the house with her ownership wafting behind her like a peacock’s tail. I probably should be more offended by her being the one to welcome me, but I get distracted by the beautiful interior of Sergey’s house.
The inside matches the outside—grand and unquestionably beautiful.
Historians and architects would be enamored by the immaculate condition of the original home, along with the collection of furniture peppered throughout.
Ornate hand-painted cabinets with gilded gold accents, matching writing desks, and armchairs upholstered in rich fabrics fill room after room.
Carved sideboards inlaid with more gold, humongous display cabinets full of family photo frames, priceless mementos and Fabergé eggs are the only things I see.
I’d put money on this being the house where Sergey’s grandfather, or his grandmother, was born.
And judgmental me wonders if Russian Barbie has ever stopped to admire the history on display, or if she even gives a shit.
We reach a set of stairs, and I realize beyond the grandeur of the house, there’s purpose too.
In most normal houses, the stairs are at the front of the house, but in this one, it’s set further inside.
Maybe it’s a security measure, or I’ve underestimated the actual size of the property.
One day soon, I’ll take my time and explore, but for now, I follow her as she pitter-patters up the stairs.
The stairs are in beautiful condition. They’re clearly old, and, like the rest of the house, would have history buffs entertained for hours.
The handrails are detailed, the workmanship has been well maintained, and if you look carefully, some of the detail is repeated in the most beautiful stair runner I’ve seen.
Long brass fittings keep the woven masterpiece in place.
I seriously want to take my shoes off and sink my toes into the run; it looks soft as silk, and the colors make my Omega side sigh in contentment.
Barbie keeps swanning up the stairs, completely oblivious to what she’s standing on. I go to follow her, but she shakes her head, flicking her hand towards the other side.
“Sergey’s suite is private.” She grins, pointing at the doors behind her. Looking me dead in the eye, she speaks in her heavily accented, high-pitched voice. “You go that way. You are not coming in here.”
Keeping with the whole bitchy vibe she’s been running with since opening the door, she flicks her long, blonde hair over her shoulder before pressing her hand on the scanner.
The door clicks, and she disappears into my fiancé’s suite.
Her cloying scent lingers like the smell of a dead body in the sun.
I can’t help but grin at Barbie’s ballsy display. At least it’s going to be entertaining if she’s around.
Left alone, I follow a large corridor and her terrible directions until I find a wing that looks and feels like a visitor's suite. Like the rest of the house, the rooms are lush and steeped in history. There’s a rich burgundy and gold master, with matching oversized bathroom, and a deep green and black bedroom adjoins it.
Across the hallway is a very large sitting room with several areas for seating, a dining table for six, a wall of library shelves, and a small but practical kitchenette tucked into one corner.
The second I walk into a small pale-blue bedroom, my decision is almost made. The almost comes because this room sits at the end of a corridor and faces a double set of doors.
It’s kind of pointless testing if the door will open, given it has the same security scanner installed on the wall that Barbie used, but I still try.
And when it won’t open, I press my ear against the door to see if I can hear anything.
Whatever is behind the doors, it’s tomb quiet, and it’s a relief because it means I’m here by myself. I think.
There’s something about the blue room that drags me back inside, even though it puts me in a bad position. A dead end is never good; it reduces your options in an emergency. But there’s no denying something eases inside me as soon as I step foot inside the room.
Everything about it is appealing, and the light streaming through the antique-looking windows makes me want to curl up like a cat and sleep where the sunlight pools on the carpet. It’s hard to ignore how relatively safe I feel, despite being close to the locked double doors.
The sound of people talking in hushed voices has me retracing my steps back to the large master suite, where two uniformed staff ignore me as they take my bags into the room.
I put on a smile as I step inside. “Hi.”
I wasn’t expecting a lot from them, considering how my interactions run, but at least these two don’t start pissing on the furnishings like Barbie nearly did.
“I can do that,” I offer, trying to keep as cheery as possible.
The women drop their eyes to the floor, and their scents get a sharp edge to it, like they’re cautious of me, which makes no sense, unless someone has been saying shit behind my back.
I look over to the cart they brought in with them. It’s full of drinks, fresh fruit, and small snacks. “How about you do that? And I’ll unpack my bags.”
And then I walk back into the hallway, so they can talk or do whatever they need to without me hovering over them.
One of the things I hated about living with my father was the shitty way most of his people, including other members of my family, treated the staff.
I always went out of my way to chat with them, and I never, ever, had that attitude that they were responsible for cleaning up after me or waiting on me hand and foot.
The second they leave, I collect my bags from where they left them in the master suite and spend the rest of the day unpacking my stuff in the smaller room.
My side of the house stays quiet as day fades into night. I’m starving after only eating the fruit and the plate of stuffed pastries the ladies left, but since no one comes up to invite me to dinner, or even show me where the kitchen is, I go to bed hungry.