Chapter 13 Ivy
IVY
Ibolt upright in bed just after dawn, the sheets tangled around my legs like restraints, practically trapping me against the mattress. It makes my heart stutter painfully as panic practically chokes me out, my lungs seizing the harder I twist and get myself even more tangled than before.
It takes a moment, longer than I care to admit, to remember where I am as I blink a few times at the unfamiliar ceiling above me.
Oh, right. Maksim’s place. Or rather, mansion.
Fuck.
The room is still dim, the gray wash of morning light filtering through sheer curtains that do nothing to soften the chill seeping through the glass window.
I stare at the ceiling for another long moment, counting the way the curtain moves from the breeze of the fan circling overhead, and wait for the tightness in my chest to pass.
I’m not sure how long I end up lying there, but I’m startled into sitting up when there’s a knock at my door, followed by the sound of a lock being shifted. A woman’s voice slips through the crack in the door. “Miss? Breakfast ready. Please come.”
Her English is hard to understand but at least she says please.
Do I have much choice otherwise?
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and rub at my face with both hands.
I didn’t sleep much, haven’t slept well in days even when I was at Sergei’s, but that’s a whole different story.
Every creak in the hallway had sent a sliver of panic racing through me.
Every faint footstep beyond the door sounded like a warning shot.
All night, I had been too alert to sleep, like a rabbit waiting for a hawk to swoop down and get me. My nightmares didn’t help either, but again, that’s a story for a different time.
I dress in silence as I pull on a set of clothes from the tidy little wardrobe in the corner that’s been stocked with my size, my style, and my color palette.
Someone did their homework. It’s a strange kind of intimacy, being watched that closely, and I hate how easily I settle into the routine that’s already being constructed for me.
That can’t mean I’m staying here long-term, right?
Dread fills my stomach.
Outside the door, two guards flank the hallway when I knock and am let out of the bedroom. They don’t speak to me while escorting me downstairs, don’t even glance at me. They simply fall into place beside me as my silent sentinels, unnerving me to no end.
The staircase leading to the main floor is wide, carpeted in the middle in dark green, polished to a near-glass sheen on the sides.
The estate’s main hallway opens into a huge dining room that looks like it was stolen from a palace because of its gilded trim lining the ceilings, velvet curtains tastefully draped over the large floor-to-ceiling windows, and a crystal chandelier above the table.
The table itself is long enough to seat twenty comfortably.
Strangely, it’s empty. No Maksim or his soldiers. Just a woman waiting at the far end for me.
She gestures toward the head of the table. “Please. Sit.”
I do, slowly, settling into the carved chair and plush cushion that sags under me. A silver tray is placed in front of me filled with eggs, toast, and smoked bacon. A cup of steaming coffee in delicate China is sat down too, and I can’t help staring at it for a long moment.
My stomach is tight with nerves, my appetite nonexistent, but I force myself to eat anyway. I’m not sure what will happen to me if I go on a hunger strike, and right now, I’m too much of a coward to find out.
Part of me is grateful for the quiet while I eat.
I don’t have to fake a smile or meet anyone’s gaze and pretend like I’m not ready to crawl out of my own skin.
I don’t have to pretend I’m not cataloging every exit in line of my sight as my eyes sweep over the rim of my coffee mug.
The quiet feels heavy, sure, but that at least is something I can handle at the moment.
When someone does join me, it’s not who I expected.
The man who enters is tall, lean, dressed in a steel-gray set of clothes that fits just a little too perfectly. His jawline is sharp, his peppered hair slicked back with surgical precision, and he’s wearing a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
He moves like a knife dressed in fine velvet.
“Good morning,” he says smoothly, his accent soft. “Mind if I join you?”
I stiffen. “It’s not my table.”
He chuckles and takes a seat, anyway, folding one long leg over the other with lazy confidence. A coffee is set down in front of him moments later, and he takes a brief pause to bring it up to his lips and sip it slowly.
“Anton Sidorov,” he says, setting down the cup and offering a hand across the table.
I hesitate, then I shake it. His palm is dry and cold. “Ivy. Um, Bennett.”
“Yes. The American tutor. You’ve made quite the impression with our entire syndicate.” He says it like a compliment.
I blink. How much did Maksim tell these people about me? “Not on purpose. It’s not like I want to be here.”
“Of course not. Don’t worry. Our Pakhan sometimes has a flair for dramatics, but he’s not without reason.”
My stomach rolls.
“Is that what this is?” I ask, unable to stop myself.
His smile merely widens. “Maksim’s methods are… unorthodox. You have to understand, our Bratva deals in pressure points. Men like us only know peace after a battle has been won.”
I’m too confused to follow where he’s leading me. Battle? Peace? Is that what the drive-by at the cafe is being called?
During my conversation with Maksim yesterday, he hinted at the hit not being from his own party, but how true is that?
How far can I trust him to be honest with me?
It’s not like he owes me honesty. If he wants to squeeze whatever he thinks he can get out of me, he’ll try every method he thinks will work.
Including trying to get on my good side.
Anton studies me with calculating eyes. “I regret to inform you that you’ve stumbled upon a rather tumultuous time period for us. Whatever your affiliation with the Sorokins is, you’ve unfortunately been brought into the fold of our family.”
For some reason, anger flares in my chest, the same white-hot feeling that washed over me in the car yesterday. “I didn’t stumble into anything. I was forced into this position. Why can’t you people understand that? I came over here to teach English, not get roped into your turf war.”
He chuckles. It sends a chill racing down my spine.
“Such fire. That’s a dangerous thing to have in Russia.” He leans forward, elbows resting lightly on the edge of the table. “You know, Ivy, I can tell you’re very smart. Smarter than Maksim may have given you credit for.”
I glance up sharply. “Is that supposed to flatter me?”
He tilts his head slightly. “No. Just an observation. But intelligence is only an asset when wielded correctly. Otherwise, it gets people killed.”
I look away, gripping my coffee cup too tightly. That’s almost exactly what Maksim told me too. How often are these people killing innocent civilians?
“Are you threatening me?” I ask, keeping my tone flat.
He chuckles again. “Oh, no, my dear. I’m warning you.”
“About what?”
He picks up his cup again and takes another sip. “Curiosity has a very high price in our world. Especially for outsiders. If I were you, I’d play the part assigned. Smile, teach your vocabulary lessons to that little girl when you return, and keep your head down until the storm passes.”
I stare at him. “And what happens if it doesn’t pass?”
“Then you’ll learn how good you had it today.”
He rises smoothly, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve before turning slightly, as though he’s already moving on to the next piece in whatever elaborate game he’s playing.
“I’ll tell Maksim you’re up. I’m sure he’ll be eager to speak with you once he’s done with his meetings.”
He’s gone a second later, vanishing down the corridor.
Who the hell was that guy?