Chapter 2 Anika
ANIKA
“Now that, brothers, is what I call sweet victory,” Pyotr says, his voice booming through the house as the front door opens with such force it makes the paintings rattle against the wall.
It doesn’t matter that he’s an entire floor beneath me, the full length of the hall away.
I can still hear every word of his rumbling Russian baritone. “Anika!” he singsongs. “I’m home!”
The sound of my name nearly sends me jumping out of my skin, and I drop the shirt I was folding in my momentary panic.
Cold dread settles in the pit of my stomach as I rush from the bedroom and down the hall to the stairs that curve around the perimeter of our grand entry.
“Ah, there she is, my beautiful wife. I’ve brought friends home to celebrate,” Pyotr announces as I reach the bottom landing.
His suit is ripped and dirty in several places, his tie stained from where he loosened it with filthy fingers.
Gray ash peppers his dark, reddish hair and beard, and the tattoos on the backs of his hands are smeared with something that looks dangerously like dried blood.
But he doesn’t seem to notice as he gestures to several of his captains who stand near the door behind him.
All are broad shouldered with bushy beards, all covered in dirt and soot, and my heart hammers against my ribs because I know where they’ve been.
Today was the day the Novikovs were to join forces with the Tanaka-kai and the Murray family to crush the Chiaroscuros into dust. And from what I can gather, they succeeded.
My mouth goes dry as a memory flashes behind my mind’s eye, unbidden.
The memory of a tall, dark-haired man in a black velvet blazer smiling down at me, blue eyes shining with amusement.
It’s not my husband’s eyes—they never smile.
And just the memory of them makes my stomach flutter.
“Anika!” Pyotr growls, snapping me back to the present as his good mood evaporates in an instant. “We’ve come to drink. Take us to the lounge, where you can offer my loyal men some refreshment for their hard work today.”
Heart skipping a beat, I turn and lead the way, my heels—which Pyotr insists I wear even around the house—clicking softly against the dark wood floors.
“Please, make yourselves at home,” I say, gesturing around the cigar room with its natural pine hunting-lodge wainscotting, forest-green wall paint, and rich chocolate leather sofas.
The elk antler chandelier suspended high above the coffee table is Pyotr’s pride and joy—not that he made it or killed the animals who sacrificed their lives for the commissioned piece.
Considering he doesn’t even like the taste of venison, I don’t see why he insisted upon them being live rather than foraged antlers the elk had already shed.
But then, he loves the concept of big-game hunting.
Pyotr often jokes that his favorite game to hunt is found far closer to home than elk, and the sick joke hits home at the sight of his stained hands.
My stomach roils when I picture him stalking the Chiaroscuro family through their halls today, like a hunter would a deer in the woods.
As the men settle in, swapping stories in a seamless blend of Russian and English, I keep a low profile, going to the wet bar to prepare shots of chilled vodka.
Laughter permeates the atmosphere as one of Pyotr’s men recounts how he chased down one of the Chiaroscuro maids and slit her throat when she tried to run from him.
A shiver trickles down my spine, turning my blood cold when I think of my maid Chastity suffering such a fate.
It would break my heart.
But that’s the way of our world.
There is no mercy in the Novikov Bratva—especially not for women.
“I just can’t stop replaying the look on Don Augusta’s face when I told him to get on his knees,” Pyotr sneers, accepting his tumbler of vodka from me with a lazy glance.
The men chuckle as I finish handing out the drinks, and I move to the edge of the room as his captain Akim raises a glass.
“You did your family proud today, Pakhan,” he said.
“To finally satisfying our revenge,” Pyotr toasts, and his men tip their glasses higher. “Za zdaróvyye.”
“Za zdaróvyye!” they echo, downing their shots of top-shelf vodka like water.
“Anika, another,” Pyotr commands, planting his glass on the marble-topped side table to his right.
Wordlessly, I head back to the wet bar to prepare a second round, the ball of dread in my stomach tightening.
I hate it when my husband comes home in one of these moods.
Yes, he’s happy now, but it won’t last as long as the liquor will, and once his guests leave, he’ll turn his sights on me.
By the fifth round, it seems that they’re running low on stories of the day, as one of Pyotr’s captains, slurring slightly now, talks about watching a burning Chiaroscuro man throw himself off the back terrace for the second time in the last hour.
“We’ve already heard that one, Daniil,” Pyotr complains, his eyes lingering on me as I fill his glass once again.
My hands start to tremble, my body responding to the attention before he’s even laid a finger on me, and that familiar sense of tiny insect feet crawling over my skin makes my breath shaky as I try to stay composed.
“Perhaps it’s time we turn to a different topic of conversation. For instance, has anyone noticed how beautiful my wife looks today?” Pyotr says.
It’s a twisted question, really, a catch-22 for his men, because if they say they have noticed, it would indicate they’ve been coveting his wife.
But if they haven’t noticed, then it’s an insult to one of Pyotr’s prized possessions—a bride he paid dearly to obtain.
He must be getting bored—and drunk—if he’s already moving on to his games.
“You certainly have an eye for quality, Pyotr,” Akim says, skillfully sidestepping the trap with a roundabout compliment that turns the praise back to my husband.
Gratitude rushes through me at his quick thinking, and I hope, the drinking won’t escalate into violence tonight.
But the relief is short-lived.
Because Pyotr’s not looking for a fight.
He’s looking for a punching bag, and as his meaty arm snakes around my waist, pulling me onto his lap, I know my part in his game has only just begun.
“Yes, she would be just about perfect, wouldn’t she? If only my pretty little pizda weren’t barren,” he says, his fingers brushing my hair back over my shoulder in an almost tender way to expose my neck.
I fight the urge to cringe as he leans in, running his nose along my exposed throat and inhaling deeply, but I know better than to pull away—or talk back, even if my cheeks are burning with humiliation at the open way he airs our dirty laundry in front of his men.
“Honestly, Anika’s lucky I chose to let her family live, even after they sold me damaged goods,” he continues, running his hands over the curves of my body and playfully nipping my ear as his men watch on, the alcohol making them more brazen.
The scent of liquor on Pyotr’s breath makes my stomach knot, and I shove the feeling of revulsion deeper into the darkest recesses of my mind so I don’t do anything to provoke him—like defend myself, or tell him the truth of the matter.
He would only get violent if he found out that the real reason I haven’t given Pyotr an heir is not because I can’t get pregnant—it’s because I haven’t tried.
I’ve been intentionally avoiding sex with him.
Most of the time, if he’s not wasting his energy sleeping with the girls that work at his clubs, when my husband comes home frisky, I get him drunk enough to fall asleep before things can go too far.
And if he does press the issue, I make sure he’s too far gone to realize I’ve been finishing him off in other ways.
Because I can’t think of anything more cruel than bringing a child into this world.
“If she weren’t so beautiful, I probably would have replaced her by now, gotten myself a wife that could provide me with an heir like she was supposed to.
What do you think, pizda?” he teases me, his hands firm on my hips as he stage whispers against my ear so all his men can hear.
“Maybe it’s time I take a proper wife. I could make you a present for my men. ”
I actually could have appreciated the first part of his suggestion.
It wouldn’t offend me in the slightest if Pyotr decided to find someone else to take my place in his bed… but the thought of having his men’s hands on me makes my stomach turn, and my heart hammers against my ribs at the greedy glint in their eyes.
“I think it’s time you and your loyal men enjoyed the meal I’ve prepared for you—to celebrate your victory today,” I suggest, turning to meet Pyotr’s bloodshot, predatory eyes.
“Hmm, you do know how to feed a man properly, don’t you, my little pizda?” he teases before grabbing the back of my head and crushing his lips to mine in a lewd and sloppy kiss. “Perhaps I’ll let you warm my bed for one more night,” he jokes when he finally releases me.
Dark chuckles ripple around the room, and I scramble up off his lap as quickly as I can without making my situation worse.
But the victory of the day seems to have left his blood hot, and my anxiety steadily grows as I sit through dinner, watching him banter with his men, drinking shot after shot until they’re all sloppy, only half-able to stand as they make their way home for the night.
The house is eerily quiet as I leave Pyotr to send the men off.
I seriously doubt any of them should be driving, but suggesting that would only earn me a backhand, so instead, I head up the stairs to our master suite, hoping for a few minutes alone to pull myself together.
The clothes have all been neatly folded and put away in my absence.
Thank you, Chastity, I think.
That’s one less reason Pyotr will have to get angry with me when he turns in for the evening.
Heading to the bathroom, I start my nightly routine, washing my face, brushing my teeth, combing out my platinum blond locks and pulling them into a loose braid away from my face.
Pyotr hates it when I take off my makeup.
But it’s one thing I’ve insisted on keeping as part of my routine—partially because it would be bad for my skin to never have the chance to breathe, but it also inherently makes him less likely to touch me—and he believes my insistence that washing my face is how I can keep it looking young and beautiful.
I hear the bedroom door slam, the glass pane of the shower wall rattling in response, and then Pyotr’s behind me, his broad chest meeting my back, his greedy hands grasping my waist as he presses my hips into the edge of the counter, grinding against me from behind.
I can feel his weak attempt at an erection.
He might want sex, but he’s too drunk to make it happen.
At least, I hope he is.
“I’m going to put a baby into you tonight,” he promises, his hot breath washing across the nape of my neck, and I shudder, my anxiety intensifying because he says it with more conviction than usual.
My pulse quickens, my palms growing clammy.
But I know from the potent smell of alcohol that surrounds him like a cloud after the numerous whiskeys he drank after dinner that he won’t make it that far if I can delay him a little.
“Give me just a few more minutes to get presentable?” I suggest, meeting his glassy eyes in the mirror. “I’ll put on one of those outfits you like.”
He gives a growl of approval and slaps my ass hard enough to make me yelp, then he turns and stalks back to the bedroom with a drunken smirk.
Pressing a hand over my racing heart, I take several steadying breaths as I look at myself in the mirror.
For what must be the hundredth time, I wish I could run away, leave this horrible existence behind.
But I’ve already tried that.
Pyotr’s men are always watching, so I’ve never made it out the front gates.
A shudder ripples through me when I think of the last time I almost escaped.
My life has become a living hell, and I wish there could be some end to it.
But the best that I can hope for is one more night of creeping into bed after Pyotr has already started snoring.