Chapter 3
Vivi
Sunlight warms my face, waking me from a dreamless sleep. At least, I don’t think I dreamed. I don’t remember any dreams, but then…I never do.
I blink a few times, staring up at the ceiling above me. There’s nothing special about it. No plaster design or blue or green underlay. Just plain white. The type of ceiling one would expect to find in a lawyer or doctor’s office.
And yet, I am fairly certain I could recognize that ceiling if I had to pick it from a thousand such ceilings.
I’ve spent countless hours staring at everything in this room from my place in the cage. I can identify anything in this room—any tiny, mundane detail, from the tasseled tie backs on the drapes to the way the glass ripples slightly in the lower left window pane—because my eyes have cataloged those details as they followed Ivan during his morning routines, his nightly routines, and every routine he has developed in order to deal with the life he leads.
Today, though, for the first time, I’m seeing these details from a different vantage point.
I’m seeing them from Ivan‘s bed.
My hand runs down my body, tracing the curve of my breasts and the flatness of my stomach.
I had touched myself before last night. Experimented with giving myself pleasure. My fingers had somewhat clumsily caressed the tips of my nipples and explored that intimate place between my legs that I figured only a lover’s hands would ever touch.
And then there was Ivan.
I remember the first time I saw him at my family’s estate in Long Island. I’d been outside, reading a book I’d snuck into the party, and I’d felt his gaze on me like a physical weight. Looking up, I saw him across the terrace, standing with my father. His stare pinned me in place, rendered me naked, helpless, and…powerful for the first time in my eighteen years. Desire and terror hummed through me in equal measure, and I wanted to run.
Toward him or away from him, I wasn’t certain, yet.
My fear was something I’d have to come to terms with because when I went snooping in Father’s study later that night, I found the contract he and Ivan Romanov had drawn up, the one essentially selling me like so much chattel in exchange for more money.
More power.
I found the others, too—other agreements with carefully vague terms involving Lulu and me and the sons of the other Five. I knew it was going to be a mess before it was over as his machinations started coming to light, and I was right. It was a miracle we hadn’t gone to war.
We—the Five—existed in a tenuous state of harmony now, one I wasn’t about to upset. Although it inspired fear and dread, if marriage to Ivan Romanov upheld the balance, then I figured I would close my eyes on my wedding night, brace myself, and wait for it to be over.
Surely, he wouldn’t be cruel.
I’d been prepared for him to be cruel, honestly. The thing was… I’d never felt such sensations as I did last night. Ivan Romanov evidenced complete mastery over my body and its response, whether I wanted it or not. His touch wasn’t gentle. Ivan Romanov wasn’t kind and sweet or sensitive to my needs. He didn’t ease me into lovemaking.
No…he took what he wanted.
And it felt good when he did it. The fact that I did…the fact that I didn’t curl up into a ball and scream and cry…does that mean there’s something wrong with me? Am I some kind of freak?
My mouth goes dry thinking about his thick fingers between my legs, how he pushed them into me and curled them up, hitting a spot that made everything in me shiver and burst, like sunshowers behind my eyelids…
And sure. He was rough when he pushed his hard length into me moments later…but surely it counted for something that he had made sure I orgasmed first?
If it felt like that with Ivan, what would it be like with somebody I loved? Somebody who loved me?
Stop. Stop that right now.
I am Viviana Romanov now. There will be no thoughts of anyone other than my husband from now on.
An involuntary shudder steals through me, and my gaze lands on the cage, taking up a quarter of the room.
He is my husband. He is also my captor.
Twisting my body out of the bed, I stand and move toward the east-facing window, dragging the sheet with me as a thin shield for my nudity should anyone walk in on me.
The house is quiet, though. I don’t think anyone will.
Ivan’s mansion sits right along the New Jersey coast. A green light blinks at the end of his dock, hazy in the misty air of the early morning. My dock, now, I guess.
Yes, my dock. I’m going to have to get used to that.
I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window and watch the barges moving slowly, silently through the morning fog. Their running lights are the only part of them I can really discern. Kill Van Kull, the tidal strait between Bayonne, New Jersey, and Staten Island, separates each of these places by a mere thousand feet.
Somewhere in that mist is the island where I was raised. The island where the Valachi mansion sits empty, waiting for me to come home. The awareness is a physical ache, making me pull the sheet more tightly around me and curl my fingers harder into its folds between my breasts.
I don’t know why I’m so attached to the house itself. Lulu is dead, and Damon with her. Our father is dead. Angel is captured. My mother is off in rehab, and she’s been gone so long that I’m beginning to think it’s an excuse to simply…be gone. To have disappeared quietly and without fanfare.
That’s the only way to leave the mob, really, if you want to get out alive.
It’s not as if there’s anyone waiting for me at my former home. Still, there is something comforting about familiar ground.
The door opens, and a man I haven’t seen before enters. I clutch the sheet more firmly against me as he comes into the room, glad I’d had the foresight to pick it up.
“Good morning, ma’am,” he says and starts to lay out breakfast and an assortment of newspapers and magazines on a small table on the other side of the room.
“Good morning,” I mumble.
Ivan reads the newspaper every morning, an antiquated practice I found amusing when I first observed him. I learned quickly that he did not trust digital technologies and preferred print.
There were many parts of his routine that, like this, seemed dated. He still had a weekly shave done by a male servant. He ‘rested’ on Sunday, although he was the farthest thing from devout I’d ever known.
He was more like the Devil incarnate: beautiful, brutal, and cold.
In some ways, he was so ritualistic about his routine that I often wondered if he wasn’t simply repeating the same habits his father had before him.
“Pardon me, ma’am.” Gaze averted, the servant steps into the hall. I realize he must not want to be in the same vicinity as me while I’m wrapped in a sheet, and I hastily exchange it for one of the several robes hanging in the closet.
Casting a glance over the breakfast pastries, I sink into my chair and pick up the coffee carafe. “Is Ivan home—” I hesitate, uncertain of his name.
The man re-enters and takes the carafe from me. “I am Brodie, ma’am, and no, not to my knowledge.”
I’m not too fond of the repeated ‘ma’am’s,’ but there’s little I can do about that. I stir two sugars into my coffee, then add cream until the drink is a pale blond. “Brodie. Where is Ivan?”
“I do not know, but he is not on the grounds.”
I’m not surprised that Ivan’s not home. He doesn’t normally hang out at the house and play checkers or watch TV with me. Still…he was so rough last night, so casually cruel. There’s a tiny, female part of myself that would have liked some softness this morning.
I turn away from Brodie, my eyes returning to that island only a thousand feet outside my window. I take a careful sip of my coffee, hot and sweet, just the way I like it.
My cage has expanded a tiny bit. This marriage was one more thing among all the others in my life that I had no control over, regardless of my agreement to Ivan’s terms.
The one thing I am still in control of, though, is myself. My parents raised me to be the perfect mafia wife. That is what I will be. I will give Ivan no reason to be unhappy with me.
No reason to hurt Angel.
I look at Brodie. “I need to get dressed now.“
Brodie leaves with an agreeable nod, and I dress quickly. Opening the door afterward, I discover him standing right beside it. He snaps to attention.
“How may I help you, ma’am?“
“I need to meet with the head of housekeeping.”
An uncertain look flitters across his face. “What are your plans, Mrs. Romanov?”
God, that sounds so weird.
But it’s a necessary reminder. I draw myself up as tall as my five-foot-three inches will allow and give him an imperious look. “I have responsibilities, Brodie. There are certain things I should be doing to make my husband’s life easier, and I am going to do them.”
Brodie appears even more uneasy and possibly even slightly amused—as if he doubts I could make things easier for Ivan. “Yes, ma’am, but the elder Romanovs have been gone for some time. Mr. Romanov has his house in order, the way he prefers things to be.”
Translation: if you mess up his system, he’ll be furious.
I chew on the inside of my cheek. This is now my house. I shouldn’t be fearful of arranging things to my satisfaction or attempting to be a good wife.
And yet…
“Then, teach me. Show me how he likes his house to be run.”
Brodie stares at me for a moment. I don’t like the look. I don’t like the amusement in his eyes or how he is looking at me; more like I’m a child playing dress-up than the lady of the house. Finally, his gaze softens, and he rolls his eyes.
“All right, ma’am. But it’s best that you don’t go changing anything, or I’ll get the brunt of it.
“Okay.” I nod.
Brodie gestures to the interior of the bedroom. “We can start here.” Walking past me to the closet, he swings open the door. “Mr. Romanov is very particular about how he likes his clothing to be arranged. You’ll notice the colors and the fabrics…and the shoes…”
The shoes don’t look unusual, simply neatly arranged in cubbies along one wall. I look at Brodie questioningly.
“All of the toes must point inward,” he says softly. “Toward the wall.”
My lips round in a silent O. He leads me back out, showing me several other things, such as how Ivan likes the blinds during the day, before proceeding down the hall with me trailing behind him.
I honestly didn’t expect to be let out of the room that easily. Perhaps Ivan had left conditions for his staff regarding my imprisonment. It wouldn’t surprise me, especially as Brodie continued to reveal more about how Ivan ran his house.
Depending on the day’s requirements for his schedule, different staff members worked with him. The staff member who opened the front door was not the same one who removed his jacket.
During meals, fresh plates were always served from his left side, and items were removed from the table from his right.
So many rules. So many expectations for the people around him.
My head swims from it all. How am I going to keep up with all of this?
At one point, I venture too close to the room Ivan has only allowed me to enter a few times, the sitting room where Angel’s cage is located.
I’ve been living with the constant awareness of his presence—so near and yet so unattainable he might as well be on Mars. I remember the old Angel—my protector, my idol—and the need to see him thrums like a drum beat beneath my skin.
When I try to step toward the sitting room, Brodie casually and expertly guides me away.
I may be the lady of the house, but my wishes are inferior to Ivan’s.
My tour continues until we get to a warren of rooms in the basement. Even though this is the bottom-most underground level of the house, the floors are still tiled or carpeted, depending on their function. I’m surprised to find a good number of bedrooms down here. Tiny rooms built just large enough to house a single bed, a dresser, and a tiny space to walk between the furniture.
Shelter in an emergency, perhaps?
Or housing for an army. If the Romanovs needed the protection of a large group of men, they could board them here.
If they needed a quick escape, there was a tunnel behind a door in the basement that led to the dock.
I shake my head faintly. While all of the Italian families had been occupied pointing fingers and casting blame upon each other, the Romanovs were busy building up their strength and defenses.
My father was a fucking fool.
All of the Five. They’ve all been fools.
Brodie walks past a door without opening it, moving on to the next. It’s not the first time he’s done so this morning. Clearly, there are things he doesn’t want me to see.
However, this time, opportunity knocks when a housemaid stops him a moment later with a question. I ignore her, stepping back swiftly and turning the knob of the door we just passed. It turns smoothly beneath my hand, and I open the door.
I’m greeted by the sight of a custom-made spa, the basin set deep into the tile floor. Only, it’s not being used as a spa. A rotten smell hits my nose, and I gag.
Blood stains the tiles of the floor, the tiles of the walls, and even part of the light fixture above. There are no physical remains in the room other than the rusty stains that have seeped into the porous tile, but I know what has happened here.
The echoes remain.
The rumors about Ivan Romanov are true; he is a butcher. He doesn’t just dump the bodies somewhere off-shore; he…processes them.
I remember how he showed up the night before, how he was covered in blood.
Oh, God.
A hand settles on my shoulder, making me jump. “Come,” Brodie says.
He doesn’t yell at me. He quietly leads me out of the room and closes the door. I’m in a daze as he leads me back to the bedroom and eases me into bed.
The same maid hovers behind him. “Is she all right, sir? Should I—”
“Bring some hot tea.” He cuts her off, voice firm.
When she leaves to do as he commands, Brodie looks at me, eyes narrowed. “Is this what you want?” he asks.
The question catches me off guard. “W-what do you mean?”
He sweeps a hand around the room. “Do you really choose to be a dutiful wife to Ivan Romanov? To accept your lot?”
I feel sweat break out on my forehead. “I have to. What choice do I have?”
Brodie slips a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and presses it into my hand. “Your husband will be home soon. I will give you a few minutes to read it over, but I need it back.”
He leaves, closing the door behind him, and I hear the lock click. I open the note—my hand trembles.
It’s from Rowan. Tears well up in my eyes as I read the words from my friend.
Vivi—
When I figured out you were to be wed to Romanov, my heart broke for you. Love, we can help you. You’re not alone. Please don’t let that horrible man break your beautiful spirit. We’ll be there soon. Be strong,
Ro
She doesn’t understand. I touch the signature at the bottom of the page, struggling to hold the tears back. I can’t cry. Not now, not when Ivan might be returning at any moment.
The door opens without preamble, and Brodie reappears carrying a tea tray. He sets it on the side table and wordlessly holds out a hand. I hand the note back to him, unwilling to part with something that carries Rowan’s strength and love.
Our timing is impeccable, as it happens.
Brodie barely has the note cupped in his palm when Ivan appears in the doorway. He’s clean of blood, but I see the lust in his eyes when I meet his gaze.
“Go,” he says, one hand moving to tug at his belt.
Brodie bows his head and leaves me alone with the Butcher.