Chapter Five
In which there will be no, “getting to know you” conversation.
Vadim…
This Oksana is very different from the last glimpse I'd had of the half-drowned sparrow that day, when her long hair was in wet strings and her face was paper white.
Her eyes, a strange silver-gray, looked through me then, unseeing.
The grown version of her seems beautiful, polished like the other Bratva princesses, but she's a bundle of coiled energy, looking like she's ready to bolt at the slightest sign of danger.
This makes no sense. With this kind of alertness, she should be running from me, finding an excuse to visit the bathroom and never coming back.
But her caution isn't reserved for me, rather for her drunken, abusive pig of a father.
When dinner is mercifully over, the Vasiliev family rises with the same air of relief that I suspect my parents have.
The dining room clears slowly until Oksana and I are left alone.
As she rises, I put my hand on the arm of her chair.
"Sit for a moment."
She does, angling just slightly away, watching me carefully.
"Are you being forced into this?" I ask. I'm not sure if that's what I meant to ask. I speak so rarely that I'm usually better prepared.
She frowns slightly. "Do I have a choice?" she asks. "No Bratva daughter does. And apparently," she gives me a small, cautious smile. "Neither do the Bratva sons. You're what, thirty? You probably had other plans."
"I'm twenty-eight," I say, "and my duty is to my family."
The answer doesn't make her happy, but she nods politely. "I hope that you will give me room to live my life as well. I will, of course, attend to any Bratva responsibilities as your wife first. But there's a charity that means a great deal to me in Chicago."
I know about this charity. And the real one that it fronts for.
The Foundation ostensibly assists single mothers with job placements, resources for their children and finding homes in safer neighborhoods.
What it really covers is a small network of wealthy and cunning women who help domestic violence victims and their children from the organized crime world disappear, away from whatever monster they were forced to marry.
It interests me that she hasn't considered this option for herself. Or maybe she has, and what I'm seeing here is some excellent acting.
"I have no objections," I say, watching different expressions flash across her face. Relief. Surprise. A little hope. She meets my gaze, and again, it's odd to have someone look me in the eye.
"Thank you," she says. Her words are sincere; I can feel the rush of relief behind them. "I suppose I will see you at the cathedral, then. On our wedding day." She shrugs helplessly.
It is abrupt. But we are Bratva. An arranged marriage holds no sentimentality.
I nod and pull her chair out for her, escorting her out to the hallway.
She keeps her hands clasped demurely, and a careful distance between us.
She is so startlingly lovely. Her hair turns silvery blonde in the amber light of the chandeliers, and it adds a creamy glow to her skin.
I return her back to her family, and after the appropriate farewells are made, I'm alone in the hall with my parents and Stepan.
He's trying to light up a cigar until my father slaps it out of his hand.
"Go out to the back garden, nevospitannaya skotina, you mannerless beast! We did not raise you to be a Cossack!" Stepan strolls out, giving me an insolent grin.
"What do you think of Oksana?" Mother asks.
"She'll do." I shrug. "I must head home." I nod to them both. "Good night."
I don't keep a mansion in Moscow the way my parents do. I have a penthouse, with a view that stretches from the Moscova River to the Ostankino Tower to the north. My suit is stifling, and I pull it off, walking through the dark rooms and shedding bits and pieces of clothing until I'm naked.
My penthouse is in the tallest building in the area. The walls and the terrace that wraps around the building are shielded with bulletproof glass. The reinforced sections that divide it are designed to make the chances of a sniper reaching me extremely difficult, even outdoors.
An angry wind circles the building restlessly, and I relax into one of the lounge chairs.
Cold is good. Bracing. I think about Oksana's pink cheeks again.
They're sweet, and her pink lips and nipples that I'm certain are the same color.
My cock stiffens against my leg. I have a list of women I could call right now, who'd come here immediately.
They would raise their hands for me to bind them to a bed or a post. Women who would allow me to do anything to them as long as they came. Several times.
I don’t call anyone. Gritting my teeth, I go to bed.