Chapter 2 #3
I tell myself to wait until he leaves, then make my plan. Bite my tongue. Hold strong.
“Perfect,” Aleksandr says, briefly cutting his eyes to me. “We’ll leave immediately. Thank you for agreeing.”
Wait.
Immediately?
Even my mother looks shocked, her mouth agape and her posture stiffened, she flattens her well-manicured hand against her chest. “We, Mr. Romanov?”
He doesn’t bother looking at her when he replies. “Yes. I want to be married by the weekend. I’ll have my people draw up papers and send them to you.”
My mother blanches, but my brother nods. He knew this. He fucking knew this.
I can’t let him take me. If he takes me, there’s no hope.
“I haven’t packed anything. I’m not ready.”
I'm grasping for excuses, desperately trying to rationalize why I can't simply leave. An overwhelming surge of panic floods me like icy water in my veins as dread as heavy as lead settles in my stomach. I can’t leave.
“I packed her things,” Saul says.
“No need,” Aleksandr says, his accent thickening. “She won’t need anything from home. She’ll start fresh with me. I’ll have my driver come around now.” He lifts his phone to his ear and snaps something out in Russian.
Start.
Fresh.
I stare as he takes something out of his pocket. A… checkbook? Who uses checks these days?
My father’s watery eyes gleam as he stares at the checkbook, like a dragon eying a pile of gold, drawn to it as if his life depended on it. If Romanov thinks he’s actually going to get a dowry…
“I’ll write you a check for all wedding expenses, under the condition that she comes back with me now.”
“I don’t know if that works for me,” my father says, the lying, greedy bastard. He doesn’t care at all about me, he’s only trying to wheedle. “My daughter’s innocence, Romanov…”
I look away, my throat tightening. He’s painting me as a virgin. In the Italian mafia, virginity is practically a requirement for an arranged marriage.
But what about… in the Russian mafia? How does this work?
My father knows I’m not a virgin. It’s the very reason he despises me and wants to get rid of me. They’re tricking Romanov with damaged goods and when he finds out… and he absolutely will…
“Don’t play the altruist now, Bianchi,” Aleksandr says in a bored voice. “I won’t touch her until our wedding. But if I have my way, that will be in two days’ time.”
I stifle a gasp.
Two days’ time.
How am I going to get away? If he takes me now —
“I can’t pack anything?” I ask, my voice trembling. I don’t care about my clothes, but I do have a few special trinkets that matter to me. The little box with a lock of hair, a folded picture, and a tiny charm that are mine. They have to come with me.
“No.” He stands. “Do we have a deal or not?”
My father rises with him, his greedy eyes widening.
“Of course we do.”
My mother stands with him, paling.
I shake my head when the reality of the situation hits me hard. “I…I can’t go with you now. No. I won’t go. I don’t even know you. I can’t just leave everyone and everything behind like that. If you want me to come to you before the wedding—”
“Harper,” Mom snaps. My brother watches in stony silence. My father looks apoplectic when he realizes I’m not going easily. I know that look well, his complexion splotchy and red, the thin line of his lips. It’s a wonder he hasn’t broken a blood vessel.
I shake my head, a strange memory from high school coming to me. My high school poetry teacher, standing in front of the class, his hand on his heart as he recited a poem.
A poem about death and going gently and fighting against it all, that I loved so much I went home and memorized it.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night...
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
“Harper. Go with Mr. Romanov,” my mother urges fervently, as if she wishes she could talk me into doing the impossible. “He will take good care of you.”
I’d laugh if I wasn’t so scared.
I shake my head. No. I won’t go. I can’t.
My future husband slides out of his suit coat.
The taut fabric of his dress shirt stretches tight against his abs, biceps bulging the sleeves.
Great, he’s strong, too. At least my father’s loser friends would’ve been easier to outrun.
He snaps his gaze to my father’s. “Do we have a deal or not, Bianchi?”
My heart leaps into my throat. Oh my God.
My father nods, fanning himself with the folded check.
“Yes. We have a deal.” His cold eyes narrow at me and swipes the check in my general direction. “Take her.”
I shake my head and step back. “You can’t take me,” I whisper.
I feel the wall of my brother’s body at my back. The ghost of his hands at my arms before Romanov snaps, “Touch her and I’ll fucking kill you. She’s mine now.”
Oh, God. Nausea spirals in my stomach. My hands shake. It’s now or never.
Wait. My brother dies if he touches me.
He can’t stop me. It’s my only chance.
I gather my courage, take a deep breath.
I stomp as hard as I can on my brother’s foot. Elbow him. I shove him clumsily toward Romanov and make a break for it.