Milana
LUCA
I stroll out of Matteo’s apartment, head straight for the elevator, ride it all the way down to the underground level, and walk out, my gaze glued to my phone so I don’t need to interact with anybody.
Benedict is going to have to wait. I’m still digesting this.
I continue to our section of the garage where, beyond the row of my motorcycles and Il Consiglio’s collection of vehicles for ‘every occasion,’ some properly banged up, some specimens from the prior century to use when needed, another private elevator takes me up to the other section of the building.
It just made sense: Matteo, Benedict, and I on the same floor of the high rise we own.
Matteo in his apartment with the sea views on the one side, Benedict and I each with our own apartments on the other side, a gym with a steam room, sauna, and swimming pool between us to share.
Stephano had to get out, Dominic ventured even farther away, the first to try cut the cord, though he never managed either.
Fuck. It hits me if Gabi stays married to Ivan Petrov, which the good Catholic girl in her would aspire to do, I’m never getting out of this marriage.
With a sigh, I unlock my front door with a code and fingerprint combo.
Once inside, the vast open-concept space closes in on me.
I hate it. Always have, always will. Windows line the one side with its shitty rooftop views.
It’s not bad at night when city lights are on, but during the day, it’s uninspiring.
The cold emptiness of it. The echoes. If I could sell it and get out, I wouldn’t even think twice.
With a few quick swipes on my phone, I activate the sound system—no Siri or Alexa here, we’re not that dumb—and start to play the album Matteo sent me.
The notes start slow, soft, gradually louder, ominous, like a darkness descending, and then she hammers those keys so hard, I flinch.
I pause the music with a grimace. Maybe she’s recorded something else? I don’t know, something less…Russian?
I glance around, imagining a woman in my space.
A stranger. Two big bedrooms, but one I’m using as a gaming room and TV lounge, sometimes as office when I work from here.
Three bathrooms, two en suite and a guest washroom that’s never been used, so that isn’t an issue.
Massive kitchen. Dining area and living room.
Everything is minimalistic, stark lines, architectural magazine worthy. Boring as fuck.
I press play again, and this time, I’m ready for the onslaught.
The music is harsh, a Russian invasion, full orchestra and all, and fuck knows, I feel it to my bones.
But Milana is good. I don’t know much about classical music, but that intricate flow of notes…
she’s not good, she’s brilliant. To get to that level of performance speaks of dedication, talent… passion.
Fuck my life.
If we’re in this for the long haul, she’s going to need her own piano here. Funny that. The open space in the one corner of the living area begs to be filled with something big and imposing. Jesus. It’s as if someone knew I was going to need a grand piano.
My phone vibrates, and I grunt with relief—a reason to pause the music.
Matteo. A-fucking-gain.
“More bad news?” I ask, expecting another blow to my basic human rights.
“Yeah. I kinda forgot to tell you the most important part.”
I drop down to my leather sofa, bracing myself. What could top an arranged marriage in two days’ time? “Shoot, Matty. Aim for the head and take me out of my misery.”
He chuckles. “Petrov stressed that Milana isn’t allowed to ever, like in never-ever-ever, go back to Russia again.”
“Well, thank fuck for that. Can’t say I’m a fan of their music.”
“No jokes, Luca. It’s blood-oath stuff. Gabi hinted at a coup in their inner circle, and my gut feel is Milana will basically be eliminated, or worse, taken hostage, if she goes to Russia. So. Keep her close.”
What the actual— Eliminated? Or worse…taken hostage? “Why?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
Jesus. How could he have skipped this part while we were battling it out in his office?
There’s fucking fine print and then there’s this.
If Petrov has this one blood-oath condition, it means Milana Petrova is hellbent on going back to Russia.
“You didn’t tell me I’m going to babysit someone who’s a flight risk. ”
“I don’t know more either.”
I drag a hand over my face. “So basically, I have to lock her up until whatever danger she’s in because of the Petrov Bratva has passed? How long—”
“Fuck if I know, Luca,” Matteo grunts, his voice tired. “But yes, if I were you, I’d keep my Bratva wife locked up until we’ve figured it out.”
Jesus. My Bratva wife. Just the sound of the word wife easing off his tongue gives me shudders.
For the last few months, I’ve been on the edge of the shit storm, looking in, but now, I’ve been swept right into it by gale-force winds.
I have so much to say but push it all down.
Nothing is going to change the situation, so I revert to my usual tactic and toss a joke into the conversation.
“Best I go online and shop ‘grand piano with same day fucking delivery.’ Can’t have a bored wife now, can I? One I need to lock up indefinitely.”
“Attaboy.”
I kill the call and for a long time just stare at my phone, digesting the sudden turn my life has taken in a mere hour.
If Milana Petrova is going to invade my space in two days’ time, I have a lot to do.
It’s going to be fucking awkward. But marriage is a line in the sand.
We’re not religious beyond posing as Catholics, but somehow, it makes marriage as an institution—one of the things I vowed to never enter into—more sacred.
Swearing off all other women is one thing, but it’s weird how I’ve been prepared for this in a way.
Maybe the universe is just fucking with me.
I press play again and let the music wash over me.
Some sections are softer, almost feminine, and I lean into it as I open one folder on my phone nobody knows about.
The one I should delete.
Photos. Of a woman. His mistress. The cyber scrub I’d done incognito for Ivan Petrov months ago. Some woman in Russia because all the photos point to her being on that side. Plus, the anonymous upload site where the content originated from is also Russian.
There’s also one video I’ve found buried deep, uploaded on a Russian porn site. I scrubbed it off but claimed it as mine.
My dirty secret.
My silent obsession.
I’m a fucking decrepit loser, because I can’t get enough of her.
For someone like me, jaded beyond repair, it’s surreal.
But she came into my life like a siren, and I’m addicted to her call.
Probably because it’s the opposite of porn.
It’s a glimpse into a lover’s life. Into domestic intimacy like I’ll never experience myself.
The video is in black and white, artistic, shot while the woman is unaware, one late afternoon more than eighteen months ago. The light is spring-time soft, and even though it’s monochrome, I can sense the warmth of the afternoon.
The footage starts at her toes, peeking out from under the duvet, the few inches of her beautiful feet, sliding up her calf to the fold of her knee.
The duvet glides off her legs, and the camera travels over her body, the subtle incline of her thigh, to the hillock of her perfect ass, then higher to the dimples on her back.
Whoever pulls at the cover is exposing her skin inch by inch.
She’s in deep sleep, her long dark hair falling in strands over her shoulder, unaware. No hand comes into view, keeping the camera man completely anonymous, but the focus shifts to the elegant curve of her shoulder as he strokes some strands away, revealing her face up close.
Full lips on a fuck-me mouth that hardens my cock every single time I watch this video. A button of a nose, pert with small nostrils, that makes me think of a porcelain doll. Closing in on her eyes and the thick lashes that throw a shadow on her one visible cheek as she’s lying on her stomach.
She stirs, inhaling a deep breath, and the camera shifts away, bringing more of her into the picture as she rolls onto her back, revealing her breasts as she brings a hand up, curving it to rest in the hollow formed between her neck and shoulder, her other hand coming to rest on her flat belly.
There’s no sound, but I can imagine her moaning in protest. I pause the video, needing a moment to take her in, as if I don’t know every part of her intimately already.
Her long, delicate fingers, unadorned and almost ethereal.
The translucent purity of her skin in the light falling from a window onto the bed.
I press play again, and for a long moment, nothing seems to happen. Then her nipples slowly harden, and when I zoom in and look close, goosebumps spread over her skin. Here, I’m hazarding a guess: her lover is blowing a cool breath over her skin, letting it flow over her nipples, waking her up.
Arousing her.
Maybe even touching her lower, stroking his hand to the apex of her thighs, nudging her to open for him. Slipping fingers between her legs and finding her wet.
She smiles first, slowly, a soft tease of her lips as she wakes up, eyes still closed, revealing she feels safe, she trusts whoever is caressing her, familiar with his hands, his scent, his touch. Her chest rises and falls as she seems to push into a sensation somewhere else on her body.
Fuck. I reach for my cock, fisting it over my jeans, because it isn’t only the visual of her giving me a hard-on, it’s my imagination building a picture of what’s going on off-screen that gets to me every single time.
And then, her lashes flicker a few times as she presses her head back into the pillow, her mouth opening as she inhales a sharp breath, and then she stares directly at the camera, arresting me with the look in her eyes.
Love. Pure, beautiful, uncorrupted love for the man who is touching her, filming her.
Nobody has ever looked at me like that.
My pulse rushes to my cock but also feeding oxygen to the part of my brain begging to experience this, to have this precious connection with one other human being out there, with a woman, the one I now seem to be waiting for.
I know she isn’t looking at me, but the footage is so intimate, so heartfelt and unfiltered, it hits me in the chest. As if I’m the person holding the camera.
The weirdest part of it is that I’m so jaded—Matteo isn’t wrong there—but at the same time, I can feel this desperation, this soul-crushing need for this one thing I’ll never experience.
The deep cleanse started here, with her. With this video. My life on hold, my mind circling with only one thought: if I die tomorrow, my biggest regret would be that I’ve never truly loved. Never been loved by a woman like this.
This is how a wife should be loved. Generous, with care and tenderness, fully and beyond the limits of what a man thinks he is capable of. Not with the cruelty we’d witnessed for years as boys.
I let go of my cock, drop both hands to my sides, forcing myself to disengage with the content on my phone. As much as the video is pure, I feel like I violate her privacy every time I watch it.
This video was supposed to be private. A treasured memory of two people who just made love, who fell asleep in the afterglow.
Except the fucker who took this video—and I know it’s a man because his dumb Rolex is on the nightstand in the background—put it up on the internet, threatened to expose this beautiful woman and her secrets to the world, with a bunch of erotic photos he took of her.
I bet he also took photos without her consent with hidden cameras, with the sole mission of blackmailing her.
It makes my fucking blood boil. I don’t know who she is or what has happened to her, because despite every single piece of technology at my disposal, this video and the photos I scrubbed are the only images ever surfacing on the internet of this woman.
She’s a ghost.
And I need to move on.
A wife.
I’m getting married.
Milana Petrova.
By the time I say my vows on Friday, this video, the photos on file, and all related fantasies must be scrubbed from my mind. Our union might be arranged, but Milana Petrova deserves me giving this marriage my best shot.
With this resolution ringing in my head, I message Benedict: I need a Best Man. You’re up for the job?