Chapter Twenty-Nine
In which there is no bigger buzzkill than a deeply unwelcome visitor.
Caroline…
I really love my office at The Lyric.
It might be a little selfish. I suspect Alexsey and Liria had it remodeled to make me fall in love with it, and it has one of the best views in the hotel of the Seaport District and the East River.
I love watching tourists walk along the boardwalk, fisherman coming in from a long day, or sightseeing boats chugging up the river.
It's selfish because it's such a gorgeous view that I really should have made it into some sort of specialty suite.
I do meet with a lot of clients here so I soothe my guilt with that reminder.
There's a comfortable scatter of furniture by the windows.
I selected them for the furniture maker's gift of carving curved backs that flow like music.
The man in my office isn't sitting in one of the guest seats, or on the couch admiring the view.
He's sitting in my chair behind the desk.
He has my computer open and he's browsing casually through my two monitors.
I keep dozens of windows open, and he seems to be examining each one of them.
The man looks up and smiles, as if I had set a time for an appointment with him.
"Hello Caroline, how are you?"
Johann.
It's Johann, the crazy son of a bitch who lured me up to his suite in Boston to propose that bizarre union and thrust a wedding ring at me.
He was sort of the last straw in my decision to resign from the Four Seasons.
However, I thought he was just a standard crazy and I would never see him again, especially since I'd moved. In retrospect, I guess that was naive.
"Why are you here?" I say, walking slowly across the hardwood floor, my heels clicking. More importantly, how the fuck did he get past Isaak? I'm not going to press the panic button in my pocket, not yet, anyway.
"Have a seat," he says, gesturing towards one of the chairs in front of my desk.
"I think not." I fold my arms. "This won't be a long meeting."
He chuckles, and it's incongruously deep and rich.
It's warm. This man has icy blue eyes, but he's uncomfortably attractive, with high cheekbones, dark winged brows and thick black hair that he pulls into a ponytail.
He's obviously stupidly rich, first, to afford the Presidential Suite at The Four Seasons, and that ridiculous wedding ring.
It shows in his suit, too, a black one and hand-tailored.
"Uncultured for a gentleman to sit well if the lady stands," he says, clicking his tongue disapprovingly.
He rises slowly, circling the desk and perches his thigh on the corner, getting comfortable.
I don't know why that feels more violating than him sitting in my chair, but I stare at his position for a moment as my face turns pink with fury.
How dare this bastard make himself comfortable in my office?
I earned this office. People don't get to just walk in here.
If you work in hospitality long enough, in housekeeping, in nightclubs, or at the front desk, you learn to read people pretty quickly.
I've forbidden more than one maid to clean a certain room when I found out the guest was a grabby asshole.
My favorite trick was to send in our surly and puzzled maintenance guys to offer fresh linens and take out the trash.
The guest always behaved himself after that, several even returned, which I always found strange as hell.
It's why I ordered portable panic buttons that every employee wore while on duty.
This guy, though. I can't understand him. His smile is warm, but his eyes are still icy, absent, like he's floating on an iceberg somewhere in the Antarctic.
"I wanted to see you again," he says. "I was disappointed to find out that the Sovietnik of the Morozov Bratva had gotten to you first." I glance down at my left hand, almost surprised at seeing the diamond there.
"Yes well, I am married," I say. It makes me oddly and deeply relieved to be able to say this. "So, there's no reason for you to be here. I need to ask you to leave."
“While it is well known that the Morozov men never marry for love," he drawls, "according to Bratva lore and legend, they do claim to, over time, share a passionate love for their women.
" He gives a sudden, boyish grin. "You can see why I'm pressing my suit now, before the inevitable slide into love or, more likely, Stockholm Syndrome hits. "
He's still keeping a respectful distance. There was something that flashed in his eyes, though, some strange blink when he talked about Nikandr. "Johann, I'm sorry that you –"
"You said my name," he says happily. There's that boyish grin again. "It sounds beautiful on your lips." There is something about his accent. It's light, but there is a particular emphasis on the 'a' and 'n' sounds that makes him sound… maybe Eastern European? I can't place it exactly.
"I'm sure you know that showing up in my office was an unwelcome act, and yet, a man of your intelligence and obvious culture…
" I don't say it like it's a compliment, "still chose to do it anyway.
So you can't be surprised when I say that I want you to leave and I don't want to see you again. I'm married."
I hold up my ring again as if this rock solid, incontrovertible truth will make him crumble.
He doesn't even look at it. "I'm very happy to be married to Nikandr. I have no interest in you.
" I'm not going to resort to a more specific threat, which would be the Morozovs doing something utterly horrifying to him.
He should be smart enough to know that for himself.
"You know, what does surprise me a little," he says, folding his arms and mirroring my posture, "is that you don't seem interested at all in how I know so much about you."
I shake my head disapprovingly. "I have nothing to hide. It wasn't even particularly sinister information."
"Well, what if I told you…" he taps his finger against the cleft in his chin, "that I know something that would decisively impact your family?"
My mouth twists bitterly. "My brothers are dead, and you know that."
He chuckles, as if he's delighted by my feistiness. "But they aren't your only family, are they?"
My heart gives one leaden thud and it feels like it stopped in my chest, like there's nothing there but a weight that refuses to participate with the rest of my circulatory system.
"Let me be clear, Johann," I speak carefully, because I want this fucker to remember every single word I say.
"You have now threatened my cousin, who is married to Alexsey Morozov from the Morozov Bratva, which is the most powerful one on the East Coast. You know this, I'm sure.
You should also know that they are relentless in tracking down their enemies.
Any threats to their family are dealt with in the most vicious, horrific way to send a message. "
I take one step closer just to prove he's not scaring me, but my insides are twisting like snakes. "Would you like to know the fantasy I had, just a minute ago?"
His dark eyebrows go up, he's intrigued. "Tell me.”
"I was picturing what the Morozov family would do to you if they knew that you were even in this room, threatening one of their wives.
" I smile sweetly; I can see every detail so clearly in my mind.
"They would rip your chest wide open, stem to stern and scoop out all your intestines like fruit salad and then…
" My voice drops to a whisper, but I know he hears every word.
"They would pile burning red coals inside your empty chest cavity, and we would all eat dinner around you like it was a barbecue. "
It's explicit and horrifying, and somehow even worse spoken than it was when I imagined it and yet this man is not even remotely upset. In fact, his eyes are glittering and the feeling I get when a deal goes bad or I'd misjudged a poker hand sweeps over me.
I just turned the sick fuck on.
Johann draws in a long, shuddering breath with a smile.
"I'm a patient man Caroline.” He stands up, buttoning his jacket.
He's wearing expensive onyx cufflinks, and he has a few rings on his fingers.
The one on his pinky is a crest, but I can't see it well enough to recognize it.
"I may be patient," he repeats, "but it is quite close to its end.
I know how fierce your love is for the people you care about.
One day I hope to be one of them. I can't imagine you would want any of them to suffer because of you.
Think about what I've said. I'll be in touch. "
He steps closer and I refuse to back down, shifting my right foot and turning sideways so that he can walk past me. Pausing, he bends slightly as if he wants to kiss me on the cheek, but he sees something in my eyes that lets him know I will bite his chin clear through to the bone if he tries.
Johann leaves with a fond glance over his shoulder as he gently shuts the door. I sink into one of the visitor's chairs with a thump, like my knees turned to water.
What just happened? Did he really threaten Liria? Or is he some sick fuck who thinks that he can screw around with me because of my background?
I look down at my hands. They’re shaking and I spread my fingers wide on my lap to make the tremor less obvious.
"Well… fuck," I say to the empty room. "What do I do now?"