Chapter 8
EIGHT
Katya
Apparently being in my presence is an honor.
Santo said it when he greeted me in the hallway at ten o'clock on the dot to drive me into the city.
Anna repeated the sentiment when she let me know how thrilled she is to have been chosen as a companion for the boss's wife.
I'm sure she meant well, but she made it sound as if she's been tasked with chaperoning Gabriele's maiden aunt.
Now I'm having to listen to someone gushing over me for the twentieth time today as we step into yet another designer boutique on the Via Condotti.
Growing up as a Bratva princess, I'm used to having people fawning over me, especially when it looks as if I'm about to spend money.
I've never liked it. I may be spoiled when it comes to material things but this deference I've done nothing to earn doesn't sit easily with me.
The thought makes me shake my head. Poor little rich girl, always finding some reason to be dissatisfied.
"Signora Volante needs a dress for the St. Pietro Gala," Anna tells the sales assistant because it's not the done thing for me to address the staff directly.
"Certainly. Please take a seat while we gather a few options."
The young blonde ushers us over to a plush chaise longue. It's uncomfortable, designed to keep its user sitting upright rather than slouching.
"Can I fetch you anything? Champagne, perhaps?"
If we'd accepted champagne in half of the stores where we've been offered it, I would be blind drunk by now. But since we've refused on every occasion until now, I decide it's time to indulge.
"Champagne would be lovely," I say.
Anna flashes me a grin. "Thank heavens for that. I was beginning to think you were committed to your sobriety or something."
"No, just pacing myself."
A different assistant, an older woman with graying hair, appears with a tray a moment later with a bottle of champagne on it. She makes quite a production of uncorking it, presumably to prove it hasn't been tampered with, and pours two glasses.
"So how come you aren't going to this St. Pietro's thing?" I ask Anna.
"It's only the elite who score tickets to that," she tells me. "It's kind of a big deal."
"A baptism of fire, then?"
She nods. "I'm afraid so. Your first appearance as Signora Volante is going to garner a lot of attention."
I shrug. "We Russians aren't afraid to be in the spotlight."
I look up as the sales consultant appears in front of us with two gorgeous gowns.
"Try the red one," Anna suggests. "It will look incredible on you."
"No." I look instead at the midnight blue and think about how Gabriele will react to seeing me in his favorite color. "I like the blue."
"Are you sure?" Anna screws her nose up. "It's a little safe."
"Didn't you tell me this was a conservative crowd, that I shouldn't show too much skin?"
"Well, yes," she hedges, "but you don't want to go too far the other way." She leans closer so only I can hear her. "You're a mob boss's wife, Katya. What you wear reflects on him."
Like I didn't already know that. Appearances matter in our world, too much if you ask me.
If a dress is too short or too tight, the woman is a slut whose husband can't control her behavior.
That means he's weak. If a woman's clothing is frumpy, she's dull and that somehow suggests her husband lacks the virility to attract someone more alluring.
It's bullshit but since when did the unwritten rules of the underworld ever make sense?
I decided even before I set foot in the first store that I wasn't going to play the game.
I have no intention of being what everyone expects.
My clothes will reflect the quiet power behind the man, a woman worth knowing in her own right.
I will neither steal Gabriele's spotlight nor hide in his shadow.
He may not fully understand it yet but he didn't marry a helpless little mouse from St. Petersburg.
He married the new Empress of Rome.
"I'll try the blue," I say firmly. "But hold onto the red. I'll take that one either way."
The saleswoman nods and goes to hang the dress in the changing room for me.
"Enjoy your champagne while you wait," I tell Anna.
The moment I slip the dress on I know it's the one.
The soft, delicate silk feels like water trickling over my skin.
It has a cowl neck and a low back. It's not unlike my wedding dress, something I hope Gabriele will notice.
I step out of the changing room and the look on Anna's face confirms this is the dress.
"I stand corrected." She sets down her champagne glass and gets to her feet. "That is the one."
I twirl in front of the mirror. Gathering my hair up so I can see what it will look like in a chignon, I glance over my shoulder at my reflection. The skin on my back is pale, flawless. My neck is long and slender. It's not mere vanity to say I look stunning.
"I'll take it," I tell the saleswoman.
"And the red? Do you wish to try it on, Signora?"
"No, just ring them both up for me."
"I'll go get Santo to pay," Anna says, leaving me to change back into my own clothes.
It seems ridiculous to me but before we left the house this morning, Santo took my credit card so he could take care of any purchases.
It's something to do with the boss's wife not having to deal with financial transactions.
I can't see the harm in tapping my own credit card but as I'm in Rome, I shall do as the Romans do.
By the time I've got my slender black pants and red blouse on, Santo has taken care of the bill. He accepts the bag from the saleswoman and passes it to one of the other guards to carry.
"You know, in Russia, I carried my own bags."
Santo shakes his head. "You weren't Signore Volante's wife then, Signora."
"True." I purse my lips. "Is there any way I can convince you to call me Katya?"
"No."
"Ekaterina."
"No, Signora."
"Signora Katya?" I try.
His mouth twitches. "If Signore Volante doesn't object."
I leave it at that. Santo is operating within the limits set by my husband. It's up to me to persuade Gabriele to ease up on the formality, just a little.
"So, shoes next?" Anna asks. "And a purse."
"Maybe after lunch. I'm a little hungry."
"Oh, thank the lord." Anna exaggerates a sigh of relief. "I was starting to think with your supermodel figure you might have an aversion to food."
"No." I frown slightly at that. I'm thin, but not unhealthily so. "I eat, believe me."
Santo leans forward. "If I might suggest Babington's, Signora."
"Babington's?" The name is familiar.
"Yes, Signora. It's right there on the Piazza di Spagna." He points across the square ahead of us. "It was founded in 1893 by two English ladies."
Surprised by his knowledge, I turn to him. "You know the city well?"
"Of course. Signore Volante mentioned you were interested in our history. I happen to know a thing or two."
And here I was thinking he was just a wall of muscle with a moderately pretty face.
We walk across the square to what turns out to be the most charming little tea room.
Santo positions two guards outside the door and another at a table just inside.
He takes the table adjacent to the one he seats Anna and me at.
With his back to the wall, he keeps an eye on the door and the window both.
I can't help thinking the security detail makes me more conspicuous than I'd be without it. My bodyguard back home was more discreet but of course there was no active threat until I ran from Boris Orlov.
I peruse the menu, finding several items I'd like. It takes a minute to narrow it down.
"I'll have the club sandwich," I decide.
Anna hums to herself. "I might go for the Italian salad."
"Really?" I don't miss her lack of enthusiasm. "What do you actually want to eat?"
She sighs. "The truffle burger, but it's too much."
"It's twenty euros," I say, being deliberately obtuse. "Does my husband not pay yours enough?"
"No, I mean it's too much food." Anna glances up at me. "Ah, you're joking."
"Yes. Order what you like. If it's too much, maybe Santo will split it with you."
He nods from the table next to us and waves the waitress over. She takes our order and hurries off.
While we wait for our food, we chat about inconsequential things. Both Anna and Santo recommend their favorite restaurants, making me increasingly excited to explore the food scene here. When our meals arrive, Santo happily accepts half of Anna's burger, even though he's ordered one of his own.
I take a bite of my club sandwich. "Oh, that's good."
Anna eyes her burger as though it's a challenge to be defeated rather than a meal to enjoy.
I realize I shouldn't have pressed her to order it.
Some people have a difficult relationship with food and I don't know whether she's one of them.
I'm relieved when she finally picks it up, takes a huge bite and grins.
"It's amazing."
As I lift my sandwich to take another bite, Santo produces his phone and points it at us.
"Signore Volante asked me to take photos of your day, since you don't have your own phone yet."
I lean across the table a little, motioning to Anna to do the same. We flash goofy grins at the camera and Santo takes the picture.
"Will you send it to Gabriele?"
Santo nods. "Already doing it. He wanted to be kept up to date."
I can't decide whether that's sweet or controlling. It hasn't escaped my notice that Gabriele likes to be in command of things. I choose to see it as a sign he's interested in how my day is going. That's more comforting than the alternative.
"Can we walk up the Spanish Steps when we're finished here?" I ask Santo.
"Of course, Signora. I can take more pictures if you like."
"Eccellente."
"Look at you, learning the language," Anna says.
"I'll be fluent in no time." Once I find a decent course to follow I intend to dedicate myself to mastering Italian. I don't like not knowing what people around me are saying. "How long did it take you to learn?"
"I already knew it from school," Anna tells me. "But I'm still picking things up. German is my native language, of course, but I also know English, obviously, and French."
I pout. "Why does nobody ever learn Russian? It's a beautiful language."
"It seems complicated though, with the different alphabet."
"Languages are easy," Santo interjects. "You pick them up in no time if you immerse yourself in them."
I glance over to his table. "How many languages do you speak?"
"English, French, Italian, German, Greek, a bit of Cantonese and some sign language."
He moves his hand, spelling out something I can't decipher.
"Show off," I grumble.
As we eat the rest of our food, Anna and I chat about various friends of hers she thinks I'd get along with and she tells me about her husband.
I, of course, say nothing about mine. Even if Santo wasn't listening to every word and no doubt reporting back, I know better than to share information about my marriage.
Loose lips sink ships, as my English nanny used to say.
When we finish lunch, we emerge into the mid-afternoon sun. It's so hot I almost rethink my desire to walk up the Spanish Steps. As we climb them, I spot a plaque on a building and go to take a closer look.
"It's the Keats-Shelley House," Santo tells me. "The English poets."
I nod. "Is Keats the one who wrote about a terrible beauty?"
"No, that was Yeats. He was Irish." I exchange a look with Anna. Who is this man and why the hell is he guarding mafia women for a living? "Keats wrote the seasons of mists…."
"And mellow fruitfulness," Anna and I chorus. It's a pretty famous line. I look at the plaque. "And he lived here?"
"Died here, too. He was twenty-five."
Only a few years older than me. That's a sobering thought. I stand there for a moment, feeling oddly melancholic over a man who died more than two centuries ago. I glance at Santo, who’s probably the same age Keats was, and shudder.
"Right," I say, shrugging off my gloom.
I turn and march up to the top of the steps. Tourists scatter as I sweep past with my well-muscled entourage in my wake. When I reach the top, I turn to admire the view back over the piazza and along the Via Condotti. It's spectacular.
I love Rome, I decide. The people, the food and the history are fantastic. I can't wait for Gabriele to show me more of it. He said he would and I intend to hold him to it.