Chapter 14
Ryder
The boutique isn’t the kind of place I’d choose, but now that I’m inside, I have to admit I like a lot of the furnishings here. I can see it blending nicely with Liev’s minimalist, masculine leanings.
My mother drifts between displays of furniture samples and home decor like she belongs here, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor.
Gold bracelets chime around her wrist every time she reaches for something, sunlight flashing off the stones.
Carmela Moreno has always moved through the world with a kind of effortless confidence.
Funny how I went the other direction and am more comfortable in the shadows.
I trail a few steps behind her, holding a tablet that lists the items we have already ordered for the house.
“Liev will like this,” she says, pausing beside a display of dark walnut sideboards. “It’s masculine. Strong lines.”
She runs her manicured fingers across the surface, admiring the craftsmanship. I glance down at the photo on my tablet, imagining the piece in the dining room of the house. I try to control my annoyed facial expression at her acting like she knows my husband better than I do.
“You’re right,” I admit.
The words surprise both of us.
My mother glances back with raised eyebrows.
“You’re agreeing with me,” she says lightly. “Should I write this date down somewhere?”
I roll my eyes, but a reluctant smile tugs at my mouth.
“I’m serious,” she continues. “Your taste has improved.”
“My taste?”
“You don’t remember? When you were eighteen, you had black sheets and a neon sign that said: No Rules.”
“That was ironic.”
She laughs, a bright, easy sound that draws curious looks from a couple browsing nearby.
For a moment, something in me softens. I miss this.
I miss how my mother was before I got involved in Papa’s business.
But by working under him, I put myself in danger and have had to learn a thing or two about trust.
But there’s an ache that comes along with a quiet warning in the back of my mind: Just because you love her doesn’t mean you can trust her.
We move deeper into the store, passing elegant lighting fixtures and minimalist sculptures. Everything here is understated but expensive, the kind of quiet luxury that Liev seems to prefer.
My father would hate it.
His homes have always been loud with marble columns and enormous chandeliers. The massive abstract art hanging on the walls done in colors that shout instead of whisper. The mansion on the water is beautiful, but it feels more like a trophy case than a place someone actually lives.
The house Liev bought us is different.
It’s large but comfortable, and the rooms feel warm instead of intimidating. Now that we’re there full time, I kept catching myself imagining where things might go.
A couch in the living room. Books on the shelves. Liev standing in the kitchen with his sleeves rolled up while he talks on the phone in Russian.
The image makes my body feel hot, a rush of curiosity and a vague pull coiling deep down.
“You’ve never really had a home,” my mother says suddenly.
I glance up.
“What do you mean?”
She gestures vaguely with her hand.
“After college, you were always somewhere temporary. Your father moved you between apartments and safe houses like pieces on a chessboard.” Her voice softens slightly. “You never stayed long enough anywhere to make it yours.”
I stare down at the tablet again. She isn’t wrong. But this means she’s known the whole time how he used me and didn’t stop it.
After graduation, I spent a few months in a sleek Miami penthouse. Technically, it belonged to one of my father’s business partners. When that situation became inconvenient, I had to move to an apartment in Atlanta. Then Savannah.
Then another safe house.
Then another.
Each place was furnished before I arrived and emptied before I left.
Nothing in those spaces ever belonged to me.
“This house is yours,” my mother continues. “Are you going to stay?”
The question catches me off guard. I picture the wide windows in the living room and the way the property is set back off the road, hedged in foliage that creates a sense of privacy.
I picture the bedroom where Liev pushed me against the wall and asked if that was where I imagined undressing in front of him.
So far, we’ve both avoided that scenario. I wake up before he does, and Liev turns away when he takes his dress shirts off his strong shoulders.
Heat crawls up my neck.
“It’s… a different situation,” I admit.
My mother studies my face carefully. “Different how?”
I hesitate.
Because the truth is strange.
“Liev makes it feel like it’s mine too,” I say slowly. The words hang in the air between us. Carmela’s expression shifts slightly, something thoughtful flickering across her features.
“Well,” she says after a moment, bitterness lacing her words, “that’s what a husband is supposed to do.”
I snort softly. “That’s not exactly the model you and Papa set.”
Her mouth tightens. “Your father loves me.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
We both know we’re lying. Mama doesn’t believe he loves her, not really. And it is what I meant.
I have spent my entire life watching their relationship twist itself into something ugly and explosive. Shouting matches that rattled the walls. Long stretches of silence where they refused to look at each other.
And then the pretending.
The endless pretending that everything is fine.
“He’s not what you think he is,” she says quietly.
My patience snaps. “Mom,” I say, exasperated. “He runs a cartel.”
Her eyes flash. “He runs businesses.”
“You cannot actually believe that.” A nearby salesperson pauses, then glances at us. She quickly puts on a too-cheery smile and approaches a couple looking at dining room furniture.
“He provides opportunities for people who need them,” she insists. “He built everything we have from nothing.”
“Yes,” I say dryly. “Through crime.”
She crosses her arms, gold catching the light. “You sound like one of those reporters who think they understand the world.”
“And you sound like someone who refuses to see it.”
For a moment neither of us speaks. The tension stretches.
Then I sigh and glance at my watch. “We should go,” I say.
Her eyebrows knit together. “We still have three more stores on the list.”
“I need to make another stop. Time-sensitive.”
She looks suspicious. “Where?”
“Just somewhere…I need to pick something up.”
* * *
Thirty minutes later, the car pulls into a narrow alley behind a rundown storefront. The windows are covered in metal grates. A faded sign above the door advertises electronics repair.
My mother’s expression darkens immediately.
“Ryder,” she says sharply.
“I’ll be quick.”
“You are not going in there.”
I open the car door.
“Yes,” I say calmly, “I am.”
Her voice follows me as I step onto the cracked pavement. “This is exactly the kind of thing your father—”
“That’s the point.”
Inside, the air smells like gun oil and old metal. The man behind the counter barely glances up before reaching under the glass case.
“Back room,” he mutters.
When I return ten minutes later, my bag is heavier. My mother is waiting beside the car with her arms crossed.
“You’re unbelievable,” she says.
I slide into the passenger seat.
“I’m pretty sure my husband would approve of this errand over picking out the best hutch,” I deadpan, shifting the bag on my lap. “Maybe I’ll give him one of these as a late wedding gift.”
She shakes her head in frustration as the driver pulls back onto the street.
“This is not the life I wanted for you.”
I stare out the window at the passing city.
“Then you should have picked a different husband.”
* * *
The ride back is quiet for a while.
My mother keeps glancing at the bag resting near my feet like it might suddenly explode. The driver knows better than to ask questions, which means the only sound in the car is the low hum of the engine and the faint rattle of Mama’s bracelets every time she shifts.
Eventually, she exhales sharply.
“You’ve always been like this,” she says.
“Prepared?”
“Suspicious.”
I lean my head back against the seat.
“You raised me in this world. I don’t know what you thought would happen.” What I don’t say out loud is: I was always either going to be a weapon for Papa or leverage.
Ironic that in just a few years I’ve become both.
For a few blocks Mama watches the passing skyline through the window before speaking again.
“You think I’m na?ve,” she says. “That I pretend your father isn’t what he is.”
I don’t answer because I do think that. That’s exactly what she did earlier at the boutique, trying to say he’s simply a “businessman.”
“You don’t understand what it’s like to live with a man like him,” she continues quietly. “He is always somewhere else. Always chasing the next deal, the next enemy, or the next territory. You’ll find out soon enough now that you’re married to Liev Demsky. He’s the same. They all are.”
Her voice changed. There’s something bitter threaded through it now. I sit very still because this isn’t a conversation we’ve had before. She’s never told me about her life from her point of view.
“When you were little,” she goes on, “he would disappear for weeks at a time. Months sometimes. I learned very quickly that I was alone more often than I wasn’t.”
I turn to look at her. She’s staring straight ahead, her expression carefully composed.
“So you know what I did?” she asks lightly. “I found ways not to be lonely.”
The words sit heavily between us. My stomach tightens, walls going up just as quickly as they briefly came down.
“You mean—”
“Yes.” She finally looks at me, unapologetic. “I took lovers.”
The bluntness of it makes me blink.
“It’s not unusual,” she adds with a small shrug. “Men like your father expect loyalty from everyone but themselves. Eventually, you stop pretending you’re the only one playing by the rules.”
I think about the arguments I used to hear through the walls. The shouting that would send me running for the guest house. The things they accused each other of.
“Why are you telling me this?”
She looks at me thoughtfully.
“Because you’re married now,” she says. “And you married a man who lives the same kind of life.”
The implication lands immediately. “You think I should do the same thing?”
“I think,” she says gently, “that you should keep your options open.”
“Options.”
“You’re young,” she continues. “Beautiful. Intelligent. You just need to be realistic here. Do you really believe a man like Liev is going to stay faithful to you forever? Or that he deserves you?”
Something defensive rises in my chest before I can stop it. “You don’t know him.”
“I know men.”
Her tone is calm and confident.
“You think this marriage is different,” she says. “But arrangements like yours rarely stay simple. Power complicates things. Distance complicates things, and eventually someone ends up lonely.”
She reaches over and squeezes my hand.
“I’m just telling you not to chain yourself to one man if he isn’t giving you everything.”
The driver slows as we turn onto the coastal road leading back toward the mansion. I stare out the window, watching the ocean flash between the palm trees. Her words circle through my mind in an uncomfortable loop.
Keep your options open.
Find ways not to be lonely.
It should make sense. It should feel practical.
Instead, all I can picture is Liev.
His hand wrapped around the back of my neck in that bedroom. His rough voice against my ear when he dared me to admit I liked the house. The intensity in his eyes when he told me he had no intention of touching another woman.
My mother’s advice would have made perfect sense a month ago.
But I see the way Liev looks at me. Really looks at me.
I realize with a strange twist of certainty that the idea of another man touching me makes my skin crawl.
Not because I’m loyal; because I don’t want anyone else.
I want only him.
It unsettles me enough that I barely register the car stopping in front of the mansion. “Think about what I said,” my mother murmurs as she steps out.
* * *
The lights are on inside the living room, but the rest of the house is dark. It’s not the harsh, bright white bulbs my mother has at her home. Liev chose a soft white that creates a soft amber glow; it’s cozy and welcoming.
For a moment I just stand on the path, staring at the windows while my heart thuds unevenly in my chest.
I don’t know what I’m doing.
A part of me wants to keep my distance and maintain the careful balance we created between us since he found me.
The other part remembers the way his mouth felt against mine in the town hall.
Before I second-guess myself, I walk inside.
He’s in the living room leaning against the edge of the couch, sleeves rolled up, studying something on his phone. The soft light catches the sharp angles of his face and the dark stubble along his jaw.
He looks up when he hears the door.
His expression shifts slightly when he sees me.
“You’re back late,” he says. His tone is neutral, but his eyes flick briefly to the bag in my hand.
“Shopping,” I answer.
He nods once.
For a few seconds neither of us moves.
Then something inside me pushes forward before I can think better of it.
I cross the room slowly.
Liev watches me approach with a faint crease between his brows. When I stop in front of him, I reach out and rest my hand lightly against his chest.
The contact is tentative.
Careful.
His body goes completely still.
“I thought we could—” I start.
Before I finish the sentence, he steps back. The movement is subtle, but it feels like a door slamming shut in my face. His expression hardens.
“What are you doing, Ryder?”
The question lands like a slap.
“I just—”
“You don’t have to pretend.”
I blink. “Pretend?”
His mouth twists slightly, something guarded sliding into his gaze.
“You don’t trust me,” he says flatly. “And you certainly don’t like me enough to suddenly start being affectionate.”
The words sting, and I take a step back, hand dropping.
“I wasn’t pretending.”
“Then what were you doing?”
I hesitate.
Because I don’t know how to explain the feeling that pushed me across the room.
Liev studies my silence and draws his own conclusion.
“That’s what I thought.”
He steps around me, already dismissing the moment.
“Save the manipulation for someone else,” he mutters.
The door to the bedroom closes a second later, leaving me standing alone in the quiet living room, my hand trembling in the empty space where he had been.