Chapter 29
ALINA
" S eems about right," I sighed as I gazed out the penthouse window.
I knew he was going to go a little overboard, but this seemed extreme, even for Pavel.
Below, the street was swarming with an armored motorcade, a small army of scary-looking men in full SWAT gear standing guard.
In the center was a massive black Range Rover that looked more like a tank than a car meant to drive on city streets.
I'd even bet the Range Rover was bulletproof.
With a resigned sigh, I considered my options.
I knew Pavel didn't play around, but when I agreed to have a guard with me, I was thinking I would have one, maybe two armed men with me.
Ones who worked with or for Pavel, but clearly in his mind that wasn't enough.
Since the hotel was in Washington DC, where the rich and powerful—politicians, dignitaries, international leaders—stayed, the presence of an elite security team wouldn't raise any eyebrows.
For most of the people here, the interruptions of security slowing down traffic was just another inconvenience on any given Tuesday.
I swore more people took the Metro not because they liked public transit or hated finding a parking spot, but solely so they could avoid the inconvenient bullshit of security motorcades.
There might have been a few people slowing down trying to get a peek at who they could be guarding, wanting to get a photo of some celebrity if they were lucky, or a politician and their side piece they could sell to a tabloid if they were really lucky.
No one would realize the real reason they were there was to take me to a gallery owned by my husband's family.
But that was because no one knew the truth about this city and who really ran a lot of it.
The Russian mafia owned this entire building.
After overhearing a few of Pavel’s conversations, I was pretty sure they owned most of the block, and half a dozen buildings throughout the city, and even more in industrial areas in Virginia and Maryland.
There was a part of me that wondered if they also used it to get blackmail on the politicians and businessmen who stayed here.
If not, it seemed like a wasted opportunity.
Though considering Pavel didn't waste the opportunity to put me in the care of a small army, I'd bet very few opportunities passed by the Ivanov men .
I knew the Russian mob was connected, but the elite security force outside was overkill.
It would have been overkill if it was for the president.
Royalty traveled to third world countries with fewer guns.
I was just going down the street.
And they were there just for little, unimportant, unassuming me.
I didn't know if I should've felt claustrophobic, embarrassed, or oddly touched.
He must've spent a fortune on this, all to keep me safe.
Or to keep me under lock and key, I wasn't sure which.
No wonder Pavel had said he needed a week to arrange for a guard.
He hadn't just sent a bodyguard—he had mobilized a small private army.
I considered refusing.
It was well within my rights to throw a fit and demand a more reasonable entourage. Not that he would care. Not that it would make any difference at all.
These weren't the terms I had agreed to. I had agreed to a guard, not a full-blown military escort, and I had half a mind to confront him about it.
But then I reconsidered.
There were too many things I didn't know. I didn't know why Pavel came home a few weeks ago and tried to bleed out in the bathroom.
I didn't know where he went every day and what he did.
He loved talking about how I spent my day but wouldn't say a word about his .
When I stitched him up, I noticed a lot more scars, some very old, barely more than a slight discoloration.
Others were fresher, still in various stages of healing.
Some were tiny little scratches, others considerably larger and more than a few were puckered like they were slashes, or grazes—actual gunshot wounds.
His tattoos camouflaged them from a distance, but up close, I saw every single one of them, and they scared me.
Maybe it wasn't safe.
People could be after him, and willing to use me to get to him or his brothers.
But if that was the case, why weren't the other women locked down?
Maybe Pavel just didn't trust me yet, and going overboard was his way of compromising.
It was going to take time. It was going to take baby steps.
I had to keep reminding myself that this was a step in the right direction.
He was letting me out of the penthouse without him.
That was progress.
For the moment, I was going to have to just take the win.
Pavel entered the room, a cocky smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. "Your chariot awaits."
I smirked right back. "We'll talk about our very different definitions of a guard when I get back."
"One hour," he reminded me.
"Pavel," I whined.
One hour was not enough time .
I didn't even know if that entire motorcade could get to the gallery in a single hour.
It looked like a damn parade.
I might have gotten there faster if I walked.
"One hour," he said again, gripping my chin with two knuckles and tilting it up so I met his eyes.
Something I couldn't quite read flashed across his eyes and he let out a resigned sigh.
"One hour starting when you arrive. The driver will send me a message when you get there and that is when the timer will start. "
I nodded, giving him a bright smile and before I even realized what I was doing, I pushed up on my tiptoes, leaned in, and kissed him goodbye on the cheek.
Time stopped.
It was such a small, simple gesture, nothing compared to the intense, kinky-as-fuck sex we had regularly, and yet—somehow—it meant more.
It wasn't some carnal need that was fueled by hormones or chemistry.
The kiss was affection.
Pure, simple affection.
It was a sign of care and tenderness.
One that slipped out like it was a habit.
Pavel's fingers brushed my lips. "Hurry back to me, moy kotyonochek ."
My heart fluttered, and a calm warmth slid over my body.
When did that nickname become so endearing to me?
Unable to speak, afraid I might change my mind and spend the next hour in my husband's bed, I turned and rushed out .
The gallery visit started perfectly, but something felt off not long after I arrived.
The sun was shining and the second I stepped out of the car, Nadia pulled me into a tight hug, and I hugged her back.
And I laughed. Really laughed.
I could breathe fresh air. I felt the sun on my face, and it was incredible.
The girls were thrilled to show me their progress; the business was thriving under their work, and I could see the positive effects of my guidance.
God, that felt good.
I had spent so long filling drinks and emptying garbage cans just to survive, that I forgot what it felt like to do something that had a direct impact.
Something that wasn't just supporting other people's work or self-destructive habits.
I felt normal for the first time in almost three years.
It was the first time since those men showed up that I didn't have a sword hanging over my head.
I wasn't waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I could just live.
I could just be me without the crippling debt pulling me down.
There was no gnawing hunger in the pit of my stomach, no worrying how I was going to make rent, or if someone was going to lunge at me.
I was smiling, laughing, sharing in the excitement of women who I barely knew but who treated me like family.
As my grandmother would have said, I was finally acting my age.
But as we toured the gallery, I couldn't shake the feeling we were being watched.
More than once, I caught glimpses of unmarked cars lingering across the street, their occupants too interested in our building.
When I mentioned it to Marina, she brushed it off as normal city surveillance, but the knot in my stomach only tightened and the unease persisted.
Pavel's guards kept checking their phones, their expressions growing grimmer with each message.
Something was happening, and they weren't telling me what.
When the guard, a man in a black-on-black tactical suit came into the gallery and tapped his watch, I knew the fun was over, but I wasn't sad.
This was a good first step.
I would get back to the penthouse and Pavel would see that I was in one piece, and I could start talking to him about letting me have my own computer, or tablet. Just something basic where I could continue the work the girls needed me to do.
I wanted to be productive; surely Pavel could understand that, and we could make some arrangement.
The second I stepped out of the building, ready to head to the Range Rover and back to the penthouse where I had every intention of showing my husband how grateful I was for his trust, the peace I was feeling shattered.
Red and blue lights started flashing, sirens blared, and people froze in the middle of the sidewalk.
Police.
They were everywhere.
The street was suddenly swarming with officers, their presence suffocating as they moved like a single unit closer and closer.
Step by step, they were caging me in.
Pavel's guards reacted instantly.
I was pulled against one's back, the others circling me, forming a wall of muscle, guns, and anger.
The tension escalated in seconds. One of Pavel's men drew his weapon, and immediately three police officers had their guns trained on him.
"Put down your weapon," one of the cops yelled.
That was it. I would never be let out of the penthouse again.
One of the men yelled something back in Russian.
"Not bloody likely," one of the others translated. "You have your weapon drawn on our charge."
The sound of safeties clicking off echoed around us. This was about to become a massacre.
If I didn't do something fast, it was going to end poorly.
Then, if I survived, I'd never be allowed out of the bedroom.
Hell, this might push Pavel so far back he'd make me wear that hood again.
People screamed around us.
Someone actually yelled that Russia was invading.
As the pedestrians scrambled for cover, I peeked out between two of the men's shoulders.
I could see more than a few people were hiding behind planters and turned-over tables, holding up their phones to record.
TikTok was going to love this .
A man in a bulletproof vest, gun drawn and held with two hands straight out, stepped forward.
"Alina Russo. We need you to come with us."
My stomach dropped.
This couldn't get any worse.
How did they know my name?
What could they possibly want with me?
The fear of disappointing Pavel warred with my terror of innocent people getting caught in any crossfire. Children were crying somewhere behind the overturned café tables. This had to stop.
Without thinking, I heard myself say, "My name is Alina Ivanova."
I placed my hand on the guard's shoulder and pushed silently, demanding he step aside just enough I could see.
I gave him Pavel's last name.
That meant I represented him, and I was not going to address a cop while cowering behind a guard.
The cop barely reacted. He just nodded. "Fine. Alina Ivanova, you need to come with us."
"Why? Am I being arrested?"
"No, ma'am, we just would like a word at the station."
"She's not going anywhere," one of the guards growled, lifting his gun.
The lead officer's finger moved to his trigger. "Stand down or we will open fire."
Fuck.
This was about to turn into a bloodbath.
I needed to end this now, or Pavel was never letting me out of the penthouse again .
"If you don't cooperate, I have the authority to arrest you and every one of your guards."
Jesus, this was going from bad to fucked very quickly.
I needed to find the best option in this incredibly tense situation.
If I resisted, innocent people would get hurt, a few cops and a few of Pavel's men would die.
If I went with them, my husband would think the worst.
Then who knew where I would end up?
But the choice was made for me when I heard a child's terrified sobbing nearby. I couldn't let this escalate further.
“Please call my husband," I whispered. "Tell him where I am."
The guard in front of me stiffened. "Ma'am, I can't let you?—"
Before I could second-guess myself, I broke free of my guards' protective circle.
I lifted my hands to show I was unarmed.
"Please put your weapons down. I'll cooperate."
"That's a wise choice," the cop sneered with so much malice I wondered if it was. There was nothing but disdain and disgust in his eyes.
He grabbed my arm and twisted it behind my back, forcing me into the back of the car.
It was a stupid move.
There were so many cameras, I couldn't wait to see what Pavel did to this man for laying his hands on me.
As I was forced into the back of the police car, the girls ran outside .
Their shocked faces, and Viktoria pressing her phone to her ear, were the last things I saw before the car pulled away.
In the car, the radio crackled to life. "All units, be advised—the Ivanov family has been notified. Expect immediate retaliation. Request backup at the station."
The officer driving glanced at me in the rearview mirror, and for the first time, there was fear in his eyes.
"Lady, I hope you know what you've gotten yourself into," he muttered.
My stomach twisted.
Fear, nerves, apprehension?
I didn't know, maybe all three.
What the hell was Pavel going to say when he found out that after weeks of begging for a little freedom, he had finally let me outside without him…
And I ended up in police custody.
The radio crackled again: "Detective Morrison, you need to know—we just intercepted communications. The Russians are mobilizing. ETA fifteen minutes to the station."
Fifteen minutes.
Pavel was coming, and he wouldn't be coming alone.