Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I RINA
The dining hall smells like roasted lamb, high-end vodka, and the tobacco my father has been smoking since before I was born.
Mikhail doesn’t let go of my arm as he leads me to the table.
His fingers are wrapped around my bicep, his palm like a brand through the sleeve of my leather jacket.
I can still feel that restless energy from the warehouse raid, his body is a solid block of heat right next to mine.
I can feel his pulse under my skin, or maybe it’s mine.
At this point, it’s hard to tell the difference.
Goodness, I need to get my act together.
Vladimir and my father are already eating. They don’t look up. They don't acknowledge the fact that we’ve walked in smelling like cordite and grease.
"You’re late," Vladimir says. He doesn't lift his gaze from his plate, he is focused on cutting a piece of meat neatly. "In this house, we don't start the third course twice."
"We were busy," Mikhail says as we reach the table.
He doesn't sit, he just stands behind my chair, his hands coming down to rest on my shoulders.
I almost lean in wanting to step into his space and breathe in his air but I quickly catch myself.
"Someone left the back door open at Warehouse Seven. I thought I’d better go close it before the rats got too comfortable. "
Here we go.
Vladimir’s fork scrapes against the porcelain, a sharp shrill sound that makes my teeth ache. He finally looks up. His eyes are the same deep blue as Mikhail’s, but they are flat, lacking the wild fire that makes his son so dangerous.
"Warehouse Seven is under my jurisdiction," Vladimir says, his voice a low, nasty rasp.
"Not anymore," Mikhail counters. "Artyom and I agreed.”
Vladimir’s face doesn't change, but his grip on his knife tightens. He looks at Mikhail like he’s a disappointing investment. "You’ve been in Italy too long. You’ve forgotten that the Morozov name is built on taking what is available, not what is polite."
"Moving bodies isn't business. It’s a death sentence for the alliance," Mikhail growls. His fingers dig slightly into my shoulders, and I realize he isn't even aware he’s doing it.
I finally sit down, the velvet of the chair feeling strangely cold against my legs. Across from me, Calina and Milana are sitting in stiff silence. I expect the usual glares, the "you don't belong here" stares I’ve been getting since I arrived.
But when I catch Calina's eye, she doesn't look away or sneer. She reaches for the bottle of red wine in the center of the table and pours a glass, sliding it toward me.
"You look like you need it," she says quietly.
I look at the glass, then at her. Her expression is guarded, but there is a flicker of solidarity, maybe? Or just a shared understanding of how much the men in this room suck the air out of my—our lungs.
"Thanks," I mutter, taking a long sip and its burns down my throat. The wine is dry and cold, but it does absolutely nothing to calm the shaking in my hands.
"Irina," my father says, finally looking at me. He’s nursing a glass of vodka, his eyes bloodshot and sharp. "You look a mess. Is this the image you’re trying to project for the Petrov name? Grease and tackiness?"
"The image I’m projecting is 'survivor,' Papa," I snap. I lean back, trying to calm myself but everything I’ve been through tonight is not helping, my nerves are scattered all over the place and I feel this strange adrenaline, maybe from fear, I don’t know, but I do know I need to let it out.
"Which is more than I can say for the you and all your businesses.”
My heart thumps aggressively against my chest from rising anger.
Fuck this! How could he stoop so low? I know he is not the best person on earth, but trafficking girls?
Boris’s face turns a mottled, angry red. "You ungrateful brat. You should be on your knees thanking me that you’re even sitting at this table. After the shame you brought to my house, I should have let the system swallow you whole."
"The only thing you’re worried about is the system swallowing your profits," I counter. Behind me, I feel Mikhail shift, he’s restless and that’s not a good sign. It’s a warning. "You married me off to repair an alliance. Let’s not pretend you’re a grieving father."
"You don't know your place," My father looks like he wants to send that glass in his hands across the table and on to my head. "You never did." He hisses, his voice dropping an octave.
My place? I know my place and that’s finding him and getting the hell out of this shit hole.
"Her place is at my side," Mikhail interrupts as he finally takes a seat on the chair next to mine. He doesn't look at my father, he looks at Vladimir.
“Shall we?” Mikhail says dismissively, already digging into the plate in his front.
The meal continues in a suffocating silence, punctuated only by Vladimir’s rude remarks to the staff and his daughters. He speaks to Milana like she’s a servant who hasn't cleaned the silver properly and to Calina like she’s a failure for not having a husband of her own to manage.
The relationship between them is a disaster. I can see the way Milana shrinks into her seat every time her father opens his mouth and the way Calina’s jaw is set so tight it looks like it might snap.
"My sons have grown soft," Vladimir muses, swirling the wine in his glass. "Artyom is playing house with a nurse, and now Mikhail is playing hero for a woman who would have happily watched him burn six months ago. It’s pathetic."
"Watch it, Pa," Mikhail warns, his voice a low, tectonic rumble.
"Why? Boris is right.” Vladimir sneers, waving a dismissive hand at me as if I were a piece of spoiled meat. "She's an asset for a union, nothing more, yet she lacks basic discipline."
My father takes a slow, bored sip of his vodka, nodding in cold agreement. "She is a spoiled creature," he mutters into his glass. "I tried to correct her when she was sixteen, yet she still hasn't learned her place."
The blood drains from my face so fast the room tilts.
A cold, familiar dread settles in my gut. I can almost feel the heat of a leather belt—the "corrections" Boris used to give me when I was sixteen, when I was terrified and asking for help.
Mikhail slams both hands down on the mahogany table.
I can’t stop the scared gasp that escapes my lips, my now slow heart starts to race again.
Crystal glasses shatter. Silverware jumps. Mikhail leans across the table until he is inches from Vladimir’s face, his eyes wide, dark, and full of a violence that makes my heart stop.
"Listen to me, old man," Mikhail grits his teeth, his jaw locking. "You can hate me. You can resent the fact that Artyom took your crown while you were still breathing. You can even try to run your filth through my docks. But you will never speak to her like that again."
Vladimir blinks, his arrogance faltering for a split second as he looks into his son's eyes. "Mikhail?—"
"No!" Mikhail roars, the sound echoing off the high, gilded ceiling. "She is my wife. In this house, her word is my word. If you insult her, you’re insulting me. And if you do it again, I won't just walk out—I’ll burn this entire estate to the ground with you inside it."
He turns his head to my father, I can see the tick in his jaw stares with a blank expression. "And you, Boris. If you think you’re done living a good life, I dare you to agree with him one more time. I dare you to call her spoiled while I’m in the room."
A huge lump clogs my throat as I try to breathe.
I’ve spent six months fighting this man, thinking he is the ultimate hunter, the man who wants to put me in a silk-lined box.
But looking at him now, standing between me and the man who has spent my whole life trying to break my spirit. .. my brain can’t comprehend it.
Is he… He is protecting me?
Not the alliance. Not the Morozov name. Me?
I-I… I don’t know what to think anymore.
Boris looks like he’s seen a ghost, his glass frozen halfway to his mouth. Calina and Milana are staring at their brother, and for the first time, I see a small flicker of actual awe in Milana’s eyes.
"Mikhail," Vladimir says, his voice shaking with what looks like fury. "You would threaten your father? Over a girl?"
"Threatening? No," Mikhail smiles almost sweetly as he straightens up, adjusting his cuffs with a calm that is scarier than the shouting. "That’s just a family-friendly warning. Just so we’re all on the same page."
"Are you okay?" he turns to me. His voice is softer, but the edge is still there.
"I-I'm fine, I just––I need a bathroom first," I say, my voice sounding more tired than I want it to.
"Go," he says, already turning back to his food.
I stand immediately not bothering to announce my excuse to anyone else. I start walking down the hall, my sneakers silent on the runners. I want to disappear into the house for a minute, to just exist without a man telling me who I am.
I take a wrong turn at the end of the east wing. The lighting is dimmer here, the air smelling of old paper and dust. This part of the house feels different—less like a museum and more like a graveyard. I push open a door at the end of the corridor, expecting a storage closet.
It is a bedroom.
I stop in the doorway, my hand still on the brass handle. This isn't like the rest of the estate. There are no gilded mirrors or cold marble here.
It's almost like I’ve been in a time capsule. A twin-sized bed with a faded navy comforter. A desk littered with old notebooks and dried-out pens.
What is this?
I walk into the room, my eyes moving through it, and then I see the books.
I walk toward the shelves, my fingers trailing over the spines. I expect to find books on military history or Russian law—the kind of things they beat into us as kids. Instead, I see Cosmos . A Brief History of Time . The Atlas of the Universe .
There is a telescope in the corner, covered in a thin layer of dust, its lens pointed toward a window that looks out over the darkened woods of the estate. I pick up a book from the nightstand, its cover worn and soft. It is a guide to the constellations.
Could this… could this be the madman’s childhood room?