Chapter 4 Anika
ANIKA
The anxiety of lying next to Pyotr in his drunken state is enough to keep my sleep light by the time I finally manage to drift off somewhere in the early hours of the morning.
Waiting for a glimpse of light is torture as I’m roused at every slight twitch he makes, agonizing over the possibility that he might wake, determined to finish what he started last night.
It fills my half-sleep with harrowing dreams of finding myself trapped beneath him, unable to move or breathe, unable to stop him from taking what he wants.
Each agonizing minute ticks by like an eternity, and by the time the sun begins to creep through the window of our master suite, I can’t stand to stay in bed a minute longer.
As soon as it’s marginally acceptable to do so, I gently roll out of bed and tiptoe to our walk-in closet, closing the door behind me so I can turn on the light.
I know from experience that when Pyotr does get out of bed today, it’s not going to be a pretty sight.
That’s why it’s best to get an early start on the morning—have breakfast made and ready along with a bloody Mary to take the edge off the hangover that will be waiting for him when he wakes.
I change quickly, slipping into a soft blue-floral-print wrap dress with flowing sleeves, and hook my fingers around the backs of a pair of white pumps.
Then I head to the bathroom to apply the makeup I know Pyotr will be irritated if I’m not wearing when he comes down for breakfast. Rather than fussing with my hair, I release it from the loose braid I put it in last night, and the relaxed waves fall around my shoulders in a soft, natural look.
But the reflection that looks out at me from me now is unrecognizable as the woman I was a year ago.
Gone is the light from my eyes, the cheeky retorts that used to pop into my mind.
I remember a time when I had to work hard to bite them back. Now, I’m just an empty shell of a human being, polished and pretty and waiting on a shelf for when Pyotr chooses to take me out and show me off.
I don’t have time to unpack that baggage, though. Instead, I creep back through the bedroom to the thick double doors leading out into the hall.
Only after I close it carefully behind me do I dare to slip into my shoes.
Then I make my way down to the kitchen to instruct Yelena to start on the morning spread—something fried in butter and greasy enough to soak up the alcohol left in Pyotr’s system.
It’s tense in the kitchen as the staff get to work—quiet as Yelena slides me a plate of fresh fruit, silently insisting that I eat something before the impending storm.
I pick at it as I oversee their progress, trying not to hover but checking every detail as it goes out to make sure breakfast will be exactly as Pyotr wants it.
“Alina!”
That familiar cold trickle races down my spine at the sound of my husband’s husky growl, and I snatch the bloody Mary from the counter before rushing from the kitchen to find him in the breakfast room.
Standing with his hands braced against the doorway, Pyotr scowls at the table.
He’s slightly unsteady on his feet as he releases the doorjamb, and I pull out the chair at the head of the table so he can collapse into it.
Then, wordlessly, I pass him his drink.
Taking a considerable swig of the vodka-infused clamato juice, my husband slams the drink down onto the table and releases a loud belch.
“It’s watered down,” he states flatly, shoving the half-empty glass back in my direction.
“Get me a fresh one. Two shots of vodka this time—or are you trying to sober me up?”
Knowing silence is better than giving the wrong answer, I press my lips together and race back to the kitchen to trade out the glasses.
When I return, Pyotr’s downing the three Advil I set out for him with a glass of water.
He quickly chases it with another generous gulp of his fresh bloody Mary, then stares expectantly at the spread stretching along the table.
“Can I make a plate for you?” I offer, knowing he expects me to.
He grunts an acknowledgment before picking up his phone and starting to scroll—no doubt looking for how the Chiaroscuros’ downfall will appear in the news.
“You weren’t in bed this morning,” my husband observes coldly as I set his plate before him and settle into the seat at his side.
“I thought you might be hungry when you woke and came to oversee preparations,” I say, my heart fluttering uncomfortably against my ribs.
“And what took you so long to come to bed last night?” he challenges, clearly looking for a fight.
“I—just wanted to make myself presentable,” I falter, my cheeks warming with the outright lie. I didn’t even bother putting on one of the skimpy outfits he likes to take off me.
He grunts, returning his eyes to his phone before picking up his fork and scooping a generous portion of crispy potatoes into his mouth.
He chews slowly, then tosses down his fork. “The food is cold.”
“It can’t be,” I assure him, my mouth running before I can catch it. “It just came off the stov—”
I should expect it by now, the backhand that comes seemingly from out of nowhere and strikes my right cheekbone hard enough to send me reeling from my chair onto the floor.
Ears ringing, I look up at him, half-stunned, my skin burning where he made contact. But he’s already gone back to looking at his phone.
“Get up,” he commands after a moment of tense silence. “Tell the kitchen I want something fresh. If it’s not steaming, it’s not hot, Alina.”
A hollowness aches inside me, threatening to swallow me whole, but I push it down, ignoring the sense of hopelessness that lives as my constant companion.
Pushing up off the ground, I get back to my feet and reach for his rejected plate. But Pyotr snatches my wrist in a vise-like grip.
“Leave it. I’ll pick at it until you get me a respectable meal,” he growls, his eyes burning with pent-up aggression. And rather than release me to my assigned task, he grips me tighter, jerking me close.
I stumble forward in my heels, my heart breaking into a sprint at the familiar bloodlust in Pyotr’s eyes, and I catch myself on the edge of the table as dread sinks into the pit of my stomach.
But before I can take a step back, raised voices coming from the foyer catch my ear.
My pulse quickens, even before I know the cause.
Then I gasp as the rat-a-tat of machine gunfire erupts in the distance.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Pyotr’s scowl as he turns his bloodshot eyes toward the dining room door.
Slowly rising from his chair, he turns to face it, his expression growing darker by the moment.
The doors slam open, several Novikov guards rushing into the room uninvited, their eyes wild. It must be bad, because everyone knows not to disturb the Pakhan without express permission.
“We’re under attack,” the one in front says, his voice quavering. “I don’t know how they got inside undetected.”
“Who got in where?” Pyotr demands, reaching for the gun he keeps tucked into his belt.
He still hasn’t released my wrist, though, and I cringe as his grip tightens, compressing the bones until it hurts.
The men pale visibly as screams erupt in the hallway behind them—followed by the bone-chilling sound of bullets striking flesh and bodies hitting the ground.
One guard turns back to face the quickly approaching violence, and before their leader can answer, the hushed pew of a silencer stops him.
Literally.
His jaw drops, his expression turning vacant as the side of his head opens up to make way for the bullet that just passed through it.
The two other guards are dropping seconds later, three bodies littering the breakfast room floor.
A scream catches in my throat.
I might have grown up in this world.
I might have been raised amid violence and heard the horror stories. But I’ve never watched a man die right before my eyes.
And as a looming figure steps through the doorway, it feels as though my blood has turned to ice.
“You,” Pyotr snarls, his contempt plain on his face as he glares openly at the man I spilled champagne on one night, a lifetime ago.
Michelangelo Chiaroscuro.
He towers menacingly in the doorway, seeming to fill it entirely with his broad shoulders and rippling muscles.
Gone is his sleek black velvet suit jacket I ruined at that gala.
In its place is a simple white henley, unbuttoned just enough to give me a glimpse of the tapestry of ink beneath.
It’s smeared with dirt and grease, splattered with crimson that can only be one thing, but that’s not what makes it impossible to tear my eyes away.
Without the confines of a suit to restrain them, his muscles bulge beneath the thin fabric, straining it until I can see the lines of his pecs and arms without even trying, and somehow, it makes him look even more massive than when I ran into the solid wall of his chest.
He’s alive.
Of course he is.
I don’t know how I believed, even for a second, that someone could kill a god of death.
“What is an abomination like you doing in my house?” Pyotr growls at him, shoving me aside roughly enough to send me sprawling back to the ground.
I hit the rug hard, catching myself with my palms and wincing as my wrists protest, but I can’t take my eyes off the showdown unfolding in front of me.
While Pyotr’s blustering anger is a thin veil to hide the doubt beneath, the oldest Chiaroscuro brother looks like an angel of vengeance coming to smite him down.
The smug grin that curves his full lips makes my pulse pound, and I scoot back, tucking myself beneath the dining room table as my survival instincts kick in.
If I want to get out of this alive, my best chance is to make myself as small as possible and hide.
But I can’t bring myself to run completely, not when I see the murder in his eyes.
His icy-blue gaze is laser focused on my husband, and I know that only one of them will be walking away from this fight.