4. Roman
ROMAN
Vera doesn’t speak during the drive. She sits with her hands folded in her lap and her eyes fixed on the passing buildings. The silence stretches between us.
I keep my attention on the road. Traffic is light, and we make good time through the city. The Volkonsky mansion sits in Lincoln Park, a sprawling estate hidden behind iron gates and mature trees.
Dmitri loved this place. I always hated it.
The gates swing open as we approach. The security system recognizes my car. I made sure of that two weeks ago.
I pull into the circular drive and kill the engine. Vera still hasn’t moved.
“Are you alright?” I ask.
“Fine.”
She’s lying. Her hands are gripped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles have gone white.
I get out and walk around to her side, opening the door. She looks up at me, her expression shifting for the briefest moment. Then it’s gone, and she’s sliding out of the car with practiced grace.
My hand finds the small of her back. The gesture is automatic, and I feel heat curl low in my stomach.
She stiffens slightly under my touch but doesn’t pull away.
The manor looms ahead, a beautiful brown building with ivy climbing the western side. Looking at it, you’d think it belonged to royalty.
The front door opens before we reach it. Oksana stands in the doorway, her gray hair pulled back in its usual severe bun. She’s been with the family for decades; she saw Dmitri and me grow up. Watched our father choose one son over the other.
Her eyes move from me to Vera and back again. Something shifts in her expression. “Mr. Volkonsky,” she says. Her voice is carefully neutral. “We weren’t expecting you.”
“I’m observing Zabota,” I say. “Vera will be staying with me.”
Oksana’s gaze sharpens. She looks at Vera properly now, taking in the wrinkled dress and the slightly wild hair. Vera’s hand goes to smooth it down, and I see Oksana notice that too.
“I see,” Oksana says. “Shall I prepare the guest room?”
“Yes. By the end of the week, we’ll move to my penthouse.”
Vera’s head turns sharply toward me, but she doesn’t say anything.
Oksana steps aside to let us in. The entrance hall is exactly as I remember it; there are black and white marble floors and a massive chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling. Everything is pristine and cold.
“The wake,” Oksana says. “Everyone is in the drawing room. They’re expecting Mrs. Volkonsky?—”
“They can expect all they want,” I cut her off. “She’s not going.”
Vera’s spine straightens. “I should probably go.”
“No.” I don’t look at her when I say it. “You’ve done enough today.”
Oksana watches this exchange with her usual unreadable expression. Then she nods once. “I’ll inform the guests that Mrs. Volkonsky is indisposed,” she says. “Grief, I assume.”
“That works.”
Oksana disappears down the hallway toward the sounds of conversation and clinking glasses coming from the main reception room. The wake is already in full swing, it seems, but I’ve no interest in seeing either of us attend.
Vera pulls away from my hand and walks to the center of the hall. She turns in a slow circle, taking it all in. This place was her prison for years. I wonder what it feels like to be back.
“You’re staying here tonight?” she asks. Her voice echoes slightly in the empty space.
“Yes.”
“I thought you said we’d go to your place.” She pauses. When Vera tilts her head, silky hair spills across her shoulders in thick waves.
She’s beautiful. I’d take her right here in the foyer, in front of the entire wake, if I could. Except such thoughts won’t do me any good right now, so I push them away for later. And later will come.
“Friday,” I say. “Tonight I need to be visible. Make sure everyone knows you’re under my protection now.”
She wraps her arms around herself. “What about my things?”
“What things?”
“My clothes. My... I don’t know. Personal items.”
“I’ll have someone pack them up and move them to the penthouse by Friday.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
Vera looks like she might reply, but footsteps from the hallway interrupt her. A man I don’t recognize appears, one of Dmitri’s people probably. He takes one look at me and stops dead.
“Out,” I say.
He backs up and disappears.
I cross to where Vera is standing and take her arm. Not roughly this time, but firmly enough that she knows I mean business. “Come on. Let’s get you upstairs.”
She lets me guide her toward the grand staircase. Our footsteps are muffled by the thick runner carpet. At the landing, she pauses and looks back down at the entrance hall.
“Three years,” she says quietly. “I lived here for three years and it never felt like home.”
“That’s because it wasn’t. It was a cage. The library was your only escape, wasn’t it?”
Vera glances up, her eyes dark. For a moment I wonder if I’ve said too much. She only shrugs, and the strap of her black dress falls just enough that I catch a glimpse of her pale, freckled shoulder.
Vera doesn’t seem to notice, and I can’t decide whether to be grateful or angry that she doesn’t feel the same clawing need I do.
To distract myself, I take her hand and lead her the rest of the way upstairs.
The master suite is at the end of the east wing. I push open the double doors and we step inside. The room is massive, dominated by a king-size bed with dark wood posts. Everything is decorated in shades of gray and black. Dmitri’s taste, not hers.
Vera walks to the window and looks out at the manicured gardens below. The sun is setting, casting long shadows across the lawn.
“I need to change,” she says.
“Then change.”
She disappears into the walk-in closet, and I hear drawers opening and closing. I take off my suit jacket and drape it over a chair, then loosen my tie.
My phone buzzes. A text from Lev: Heard you claimed the widow. Bold move.
I don’t respond, but it gets a dry laugh out of me.
She emerges from the closet wearing dark jeans and a simple black sweater. She’s pulled her hair back into a ponytail, and without the funeral makeup she looks younger. Tired, but younger.
“Better?” I ask.
“It’ll do.”
She sits on the edge of the bed and then immediately stands back up, like the mattress burned her. “I can’t sleep here,” she says. “Not in this bed.”
“You won’t have to after Friday.”
“No.” She cuts me off. “I mean I won’t sleep in the bed Dmitri... that we...” She trails off, her throat working.
I get it.
“Guest room then.”
We wander into the hall, and I duck to catch Vera’s lips between my teeth. For a second I think she might pull back, but she leans into it with a moan.
“I need to speak to the staff,” I murmur against her lips. “Meet me downstairs later.”
I leave her there and head back downstairs. The wake is winding down by now, thank God. Most of the guests have already left, and the remaining few are clustered in small groups, speaking in low voices.
I find Oksana in the kitchen, directing the catering staff as they pack up.
“I need you to gather everyone,” I say. “All the household staff. Five minutes in the main hall.”
She doesn’t question it. She’s used to Dmitri’s rule, so why would she?
Five minutes later, they’re all assembled. Ten in total. They stand in a loose semicircle, and I can feel their uncertainty radiating off them in waves.
“As of tonight,” I say, “Vera Volkonsky is under my protection. She’ll be moving to my penthouse soon, and I expect full cooperation in packing her belongings.”
Silence. They exchange glances but no one speaks.
“I’m observing Zabota,” I continue. “Which means for the next ninety days, she’s my responsibility. Anyone who has a problem with that can find employment elsewhere.”
Still silence. Then Oksana clears her throat. “May I ask a question?”
“Go ahead.”
“Zabota hasn’t been observed in this family for... decades. Why now?”
It’s a fair question. The tradition fell out of use after my grandfather died. Too old-fashioned, my father said. Too limiting.
But it serves my purposes now.
“It’s family custom,” I say. “Next of kin looks after the deceased’s spouse for ninety days. A standard mourning period.”
“Mrs. Volkonsky has her father?—”
“Her father is useless. You know that as well as I do.”
She doesn’t argue because it’s true and everyone in this room knows it.
“The ninety days begin now,” I say. “During that time, you’re considered my staff, and will work for me at the penthouse. Is that understood?”
Murmurs of agreement.
“Good. Oksana, I want her things packed and ready to move by ten Friday morning. Everything from her closet and her bathroom, anything personal.”
“Yes, sir.”
I let my gaze move across each face. The cook looks nervous.
Only the groundskeeper meets my stare, and he’s the one who finally speaks. “What about Mr. Grishin?” he asks. “He was asking about Mrs. Volkonsky earlier. Said he’d be calling on her tomorrow.”
Anton. Of course he is.
“If Anton Grishin shows up here, you tell him Mrs. Volkonsky is no longer in residence. You don’t tell him where she is. Understood?”
The groundskeeper nods.
“Anyone else have questions?”
It appears that nobody does. Either that, or they’re unwilling to voice it. Regardless, nobody says a single word.
“Then get back to work.”
They disperse quietly. Only Oksana lingers, her sharp eyes studying my face. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” she says when the others are gone.
“I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you?” She crosses her arms over her chest, and I notice how thin she’s gotten since I last saw her.
Her gray hair is streaked with white now, and there are new lines around her mouth.
I step closer, and Oksana holds her ground. She’s one of the few people who ever stood up to my father, or who told Dmitri no when he was being an entitled shit. I respect that about her, but I need her to understand how this works now.
“She’s already in the middle of it,” I say quietly. “The moment Dmitri married her, she became part of this. I’m giving her a way out.”
“Only for ninety days.”