Chapter Eighteen
LUCIA
I’ve been back in Viktor’s house for nine days.
I know because I’ve scratched one line into the underside of my nightstand for every morning I’ve woken inside this room.
Nine lines.
Before, I counted years.
Now every day feels like something stolen.
The electronic lock releases at precisely eight o’clock.
I’m already standing when the door opens.
Yevgeny enters first. He checks the windows, the bathroom, and the balcony doors before allowing Galina to follow with my breakfast.
Ivan used to perform the same inspection.
Ivan took longer. He looked beneath the bed and inside the closet even though both were visible from the doorway.
Yevgeny is more efficient.
He doesn’t need to look twice.
Galina sets the tray on the small table near the window. The china is white with a narrow gold rim, exactly as it was before I escaped.
Coffee. Toast. Two poached eggs. Sliced strawberries.
The sight of the strawberries makes my chest hurt.
Angela used to put them beside my eggs.
I turn away.
“How did you sleep?” Galina asks.
“Fine.”
It’s the answer I’ve given every morning.
She knows it’s a lie.
Dark circles sit beneath her eyes, and she looks smaller than I remember. Her gray hair has been pulled into a severe knot, though several strands have escaped around her face.
I want to hug her.
Yevgeny stands beside the open door.
I don’t.
“Eat while it’s warm,” Galina says.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You didn’t eat dinner.”
“I wasn’t hungry then either.”
Her gaze moves toward Yevgeny.
He gives no indication that he’s listening.
Of course he is.
“I’ll leave it,” Galina says.
She touches my hand briefly as she passes.
The contact lasts less than a second.
It nearly undoes me.
Yevgeny waits until she’s gone.
“You need to eat.”
I look toward the window. Beyond the glass, the brick buildings across the street stand in a neat red row beneath the morning sky.
“Is that an order?”
“Yes.”
“Will you force me?”
“No.”
“Then I suppose it’s a suggestion.”
He studies me with those flat, dark eyes.
The viper at his left temple makes every expression appear more threatening than it might be otherwise. Its open jaws frame the outer corner of his eye, and every movement of his face makes the fangs seem to shift against his skin.
“You’ll be expected downstairs tonight.”
“For what?”
“Dinner.”
“Who will be there?”
“Viktor will tell you.”
“Viktor tells me very little.”
“That hasn’t stopped you from asking questions.”
I look at him.
“Where’s Ivan?”
Nothing changes in his face.
“Reassigned.”
“Where?”
“That isn’t your concern.”
“He was responsible for me when I escaped.”
“Yes.”
“Did Viktor hurt him?”
Yevgeny’s jaw shifts.
“He’s alive.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
“It’s the answer you’re getting.”
He walks toward the door.
“Yevgeny.”
He stops.
“Did Ivan know you were taking Aniya?”
His back remains to me.
“Taking her where?”
“Don’t.”
My voice sharpens.
“Viktor used her to force Marco to bring me back. You know exactly what I mean.”
Yevgeny turns.
“Your sister is with her father.”
“Is she safe?”
“Yes.”
The answer comes immediately.
“Have you seen her?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Three days ago.”
“Where?”
“That’s enough.”
“For you, perhaps.”
His hand closes around the door handle.
“She doesn’t know about any of this,” he says.
“About me?”
“About why she was moved.”
“Does she know where I am?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because Viktor decided she didn’t need to know.”
I laugh without humor.
“Of course he did.”
The door closes behind him.
The lock beeps.
I wait until his footsteps fade before kneeling beside the nightstand.
The knife is gone.
So is the money I hid in the toilet tank.
The first thing Viktor’s men did after I disappeared was search every inch of the room. They must have stripped the bed, emptied the drawers, and removed the backs from every picture frame.
They found everything.
The balcony doors now have two additional locks. Thin white sensors have been attached to every window. A camera watches the hallway outside my bedroom.
Even if I make it through the door, I won’t reach the stairs.
Viktor learned from my escape.
So did I.
Last time, I spent two years collecting money and waiting for the perfect opportunity.
This time, I don’t intend to wait.
I eat one piece of toast because Galina will worry if the tray returns untouched.
The strawberries remain on the plate.
At noon, the lock releases again.
Yevgeny enters carrying a garment bag.
“No.”
He hangs it outside the bathroom.
“You haven’t seen it.”
“I don’t need to.”
“Dinner is at seven.”
“I’m not going.”
He removes a black box from beneath his arm and places it beside the garment bag.
Shoes.
Jewelry will probably arrive next.
The same choreography as before.
“Tell Viktor I’m sick.”
“He won’t believe me.”
“Be creative.”
“I’m not paid to be creative.”
“What are you paid to do?”
His eyes settle on me.
“Make sure you don’t disappear.”
There is no anger in the answer.
No pleasure either.
It’s simply a fact.
I look at the garment bag.
“What happens if I refuse?”
“Viktor sends Galina to dress you.”
“I won’t let her.”
“Then he sends someone else.”
The implication hangs between us.
“Would you hold me down?”
“No.”
“Would Ivan?”
Something hard enters his expression.
“I’m not Ivan.”
“No. Ivan occasionally answered my questions.”
“And you still escaped while he was responsible for you.”
There it is.
Not cruelty.
Judgment.
Perhaps even resentment.
I step closer.
“Do you blame him?”
“For failing his assignment?”
“For letting me breathe.”
Yevgeny looks toward the locked balcony.
“Ivan forgot what you were.”
My stomach turns.
“And what am I?”
“Important.”
The answer surprises me.
Not a prisoner.
Not Viktor’s niece.
Important.
“To whom?”
Yevgeny opens the door.
“Dinner is at seven.”
The lock engages behind him.
#
I leave the garment bag untouched until six thirty.
Then I unzip it.
The dress inside is deep red, with long sleeves and a neckline that falls lower than anything I would choose. The fabric is soft, heavy, and expensive. It catches the light with a muted sheen and is designed to make whoever wears it impossible to overlook.
Viktor wants me seen.
Again.
I consider refusing.
Then I remember Yevgeny’s warning.
Galina would try to persuade me gently. When that failed, Viktor would send someone who didn’t care whether I dressed willingly.
I will not give him the satisfaction of having me dragged downstairs.
I shower.
I dress.
But I don’t style my hair or put on makeup.
The dress is Viktor’s choice.
My face is mine.
Yevgeny arrives at seven.
His gaze travels over me once.
“You were supposed to wear the jewelry.”
“I didn’t like it.”
“There was a stylist.”
“I sent her away.”
“I heard.”
I walk toward the door.
He doesn’t move.
“What?”
“Your shoes.”
“I’m wearing shoes.”
He looks down at the flat black slippers on my feet.
“Those weren’t the ones Viktor selected.”
“I didn’t ask what Viktor selected.”
For one moment, I expect him to return me to the room.
Instead, he steps aside.
“Your funeral.”
“That’s encouraging.”
He escorts me downstairs.
The townhouse hasn’t changed during my absence. The same gilt-framed paintings line the hall. The same chandelier scatters light across the marble floor. Every surface gleams without displaying any evidence that people actually live here.
At Belmont, books migrate between rooms. Angela leaves her gardening gloves on the kitchen terrace. Gio abandons jackets wherever he removes them, and Marco’s coffee cups collect in his office until someone intervenes.
Here, nothing is ever out of place.
Including me, when Viktor has chosen the place himself.
Two men wait at the bottom of the staircase. Another stands outside the dining-room doors.
Viktor isn’t taking chances.
Conversation reaches us before we enter.
Male voices.
At least four.
I stop.
Yevgeny does too.
“Who are they?”
“Business associates.”
“Potential husbands?”
His silence answers.
“I’m not marrying any of them.”
“Then tell Viktor that.”
“I have.”
“So tell him again.”
I look at Yevgeny.
“Is that your advice?”
“No.”
“What would you call it?”
“An observation.”
He opens the dining-room doors.
Every man at the table looks up.
The room is all dark wood, crystal, and warm golden light. Tall candles burn between arrangements of white roses. Someone has set six places with enough silverware to perform minor surgery.
Viktor sits at the head of the table.
The man beside him is somewhere in his forties, with thinning hair and a wedding ring he hasn’t bothered to remove. I recognize two of the others from dinners before my escape.
The fourth is younger.
He’s the only one who rises.
“Lucia,” Viktor says. “You remember Sergei Antonov.”
The married man smiles.
“We’ve met.”
Unfortunately.
Yevgeny pulls out the chair beside Sergei.
I take the empty seat across from him instead.
Viktor’s expression tightens.
No one comments.
Dinner begins.
The first course is some kind of beet salad arranged into a tower. Red sauce has been painted across the plate beneath it in a careful arc.
I don’t touch it.
Sergei talks about a resort he owns in Montenegro. Viktor asks questions about the property while the younger man watches me over the rim of his wineglass.
No one asks where I’ve been for the last month.
They all know.
By the main course, Sergei’s attention has shifted entirely to me.
“You look well,” he says.
“I am.”
“I heard you were ill.”
“Was I.”
The table goes quiet.
Viktor sets down his knife.
“Lucia has had a difficult few weeks.”
“I escaped,” I say.
Sergei smiles as though I’ve made a joke.
“Impulsive young women often mistake recklessness for courage.”
“And older men often mistake condescension for wisdom.”
The younger man coughs into his napkin.
Viktor’s gaze cuts toward me.
Yevgeny stands against the wall behind him, his expression unreadable.
Sergei reaches across the table and places his hand over mine.
I freeze.
His palm is warm and damp.
“You’ll learn,” he says.
Before I can pull away, Yevgeny steps forward.
“Mr. Antonov.”
Sergei looks up.
Yevgeny nods toward his wineglass.
“You’re about to spill.”
The glass is nowhere near his hand.
Sergei knows it.
So do I.
After a moment, he removes his hand from mine.
Yevgeny returns to the wall.
No one acknowledges what happened.
I wipe my hand on my napkin beneath the table.
Viktor changes the subject to shipping contracts.
Dinner continues.
Dessert arrives beneath delicate shells of spun sugar and then leaves untouched.
When Viktor finally dismisses the other men, I remain in my chair.
Sergei takes my hand again before leaving.
This time, I pull it away.
His smile doesn’t falter.
“I hope we’ll see each other again soon.”
“I don’t.”
He laughs.
Viktor waits until the doors close.
“You embarrassed me.”
“I wore the dress.”
“You were rude to Antonov.”
“He touched me.”
“He was being attentive.”
“He’s married.”
“Not for long, if the right arrangement presents itself.”
My stomach turns.
“I won’t marry him.”
“You will marry whomever I select.”
“The Rossi trust will be mine in less than two weeks.”
Viktor’s expression cools.
“So Marco told you.”
“He told me everything.”
Not everything.
The lie tastes bitter.
“He filled your head with ideas.”
“He showed me documents.”
“Documents can be interpreted many ways.”
“Not the date of my birthday.”
“You aren’t equipped to manage the Rossi holdings.”
“But Sergei is?”
“He understands the value of cooperation.”
“I understand the value of my own property.”
Viktor leans back.
For the first time, he looks at me differently.
Not as a disobedient child.
As an obstacle.
“You will attend these dinners,” he says. “You will behave appropriately, and when I decide which arrangement best protects this family, you will cooperate.”
“No.”
The word echoes faintly through the room.
Viktor’s eyes narrow.
“Take her upstairs.”
Yevgeny steps away from the wall.
I rise before he reaches me.
“I can walk.”
“I know you can.”
He follows me from the dining room.
We climb the stairs in silence.
At my bedroom, he presses his thumb to the biometric panel. The lock releases.
I step inside but turn before he can close the door.
“Why did you stop him?”
“Who?”
“Sergei.”
“He was making you agitated.”
“That concerned you?”
“It was disrupting dinner.”
I almost smile.
Yevgeny’s gaze remains flat.
“You shouldn’t encourage Antonov.”
“I told him I never wanted to see him again.”
“He’ll interpret that as a challenge.”
“Men like him interpret breathing as encouragement.”
Something shifts near Yevgeny’s mouth.
Not a smile.
Almost.
“Then stop breathing.”
There’s no humor in his tone.
Somehow, I know he’s joking.
“Is that your professional advice?”
“No.”
“Any other observations?”
He reaches for the door.
“Antonov won’t be the last.”
My brief amusement disappears.
“How many?”
“As many as Viktor needs.”
“Needs for what?”
“To find one you can’t refuse.”
“I can refuse all of them.”
“You should be careful what you say with certainty.”
The warning chills me.
“Is that a threat?”
“No.”
For the first time all evening, something human enters his expression.
“It’s experience.”
Before I can ask what he means, he closes the door.
The lock beeps.
I stand in the middle of the room wearing Viktor’s red dress.
Nine days ago, this house felt like a tomb.
Tonight, it feels like a marketplace.
Viktor intends to display me until someone offers enough.
He believes the locked doors have made me powerless again.
He’s wrong.
Marco showed me the truth about the trust. Angela reminded me that beautiful things are meant to be used. Gio taught me that freedom can be loud and ridiculous and full of laughter.
They may all be gone, but what they gave me remains.
Even Marco.
Especially Marco.
The thought hurts so badly that I have to sit down.
I hate him.
I hate that I still remember the way he looked at me across the dinner table. I hate that part of me waits for the sound of a car outside. I hate that every time footsteps stop beyond my door, I hope they belong to him.
They never do.
I remove the red dress and leave it crumpled on the floor.
Then I kneel beside the nightstand and run one finger over the newest mark beneath the drawer.
Nine.
Viktor can lock the door.
He can choose the dresses and invite the men.
He can take away my money, my books, and every possible route out of this house.
But he cannot return me to the woman I was before I escaped.
That woman waited two years for an opportunity.
I won’t.