Chapter 7 New Surroundings
New Surroundings
Mira
The jet touches down softly, but my body jolts up like we’ve crashed landed.
I peer through the cabin window, and I squint from the sudden brightness of the Russian tundra.
There’s snow everywhere, and cold seeps into the cabin before the door even opens.
Suddenly, retiring in Florida doesn’t sound so bad.
My seat belt is still in place, and Nikolai is already on his feet, barking orders in rapid Russian to the security detail waiting below.
His voice is sharp and commanding—lacking the hint of softness that seemed to be reserved only for me.
Men in black tactical gear snap to attention, their movements crisp and in sync.
Nikolai turns briefly, eyes locking with mine.
“Stay close,” he says brusquely.
I nod and accept his outstretched hand. Sasha appears by his side with a fur bundle. He grins at me, and I scowl, still holding on to my grudge against him for shooting me.
“Mira,” Nikolai says, reprimanding me, grasping my cheeks painfully. “Enough with your attitude. It is done,” he seethes, pointing a finger in my face. “Show some fucking respect to the man who might have to lay down his life for you.”
He releases me roughly. It’s almost a shove, and I fight not to rub my aching jaw. Instead, I apologize. “I’m sorry, Sasha.”
He smirks, and I immediately regret my apology.
“No harm done. You are recovering nicely,” he says, beaming from his snarky compliment.
“Thank you,” I whisper before giving Nikolai my attention.
He unfurls the bundle, lengthening a heavy brown fur coat.
He holds it out to me, and the words “Is it faux?” are at the tip of my tongue, but I think better of questioning him.
“Thank you, Nikolai. It’s gorgeous,” I say, sliding my arms into the coat.
“You’re welcome,” he replies, continuing to dress me. He ties the belt around my waist before sliding my hands into leather fur-lined gloves. He completes the ensemble with a matching hat. “Gorgeous,” he proclaims, patting me on the cheek.
We step out of the jet, and the wind hits me like a slap to the face. I gasp.
“God, it’s cold.”
Nikolai smirks but doesn’t comment. He guides me down the steps with a firm hand on my back, then toward a convoy of solid black SUVs lined up like a funeral procession.
I bet my fur coat they’re all armored.
One of the men wearing a balaclava opens the rear passenger door, and I climb in, heart hammering in my chest. I’m in a foreign country and I don’t know the language beyond the little Nikolai has taught me, which mainly consists of swear words.
Warmth returns as soon as Nikolai slides in beside me. His hand settles on my knee possessively. His touch grounds me as always, and I relax against the heated leather seats.
He accepts a cell phone from Sasha and begins speaking Russian, fast and clipped, and I stare out the window as the convoy pulls away from the airstrip.
The drive is long, winding through icy roads and dense forests. I lose track of time, lulled by the rhythm of the tires and the quiet hum of the heater. Nikolai doesn’t speak to me again, but his hand never leaves my knee.
When we finally arrive, I sit up straighter, eyes widening.
The estate looms ahead, massive, secluded, and heavily guarded.
A tall iron gate framed by stone pillars marks the entrance, flanked by a guard shack and men in black balaclavas holding automatic weapons.
They don’t flinch as our SUV approaches.
One of them steps forward, scans the vehicle, then nods. The gate creaks open.
I turn to Nikolai. “This is your home?”
He gives a slight nod. “One of them.”
The mansion itself is breathtaking. It’s constructed from dark stone and glass, modern yet archaic. Snow dusts the roof and windowsills, but the interior glows with warm light.
As we pull up to the front entrance, staff members emerge. Maids and men in suits with earpieces move like clockwork, each one knowing exactly where to be and when.
The door opens, and a woman in her fifties greets me with a warm smile. Her hair is pulled into a sleek bun, and she wears a tailored black suit that screams head bitch in charge.
“Welcome, Ms. Talbert,” she greets with a slight bow. “I’m Galina, the house manager. We’ve been preparing for your arrival.”
“Um…thank you very much. You may call me Mira.”
“Very well, Ms. Mira. Come. Let me show you the estate.” I hesitate and glance at Nikolai, who’s already speaking to another staff member. “It’s alright, dear. I suspect Mr. Solkov will be busy playing catch-up for the remainder of the evening.”
After a bit of cojoling, I finally leave with Galina. We step inside, and the warmth hits me instantly, along with the scent of cedar and something faintly floral.
The foyer is grand with vaulted ceilings, a chandelier that looks like falling icicles, and a sweeping staircase that curves to a second level.
Galina leads me through room after room, each more stunning than the last. The sitting room is wrapped in velvet and gold, with a fireplace that crackles softly and bookshelves lined with leather-bound volumes.
The dining hall could seat twenty, its long mahogany table gleaming under crystal lights.
The kitchen is sleek and industrial, with polished steel surfaces and a three-man team of chefs prepping something fragrant and rich.
“This is the solarium,” Galina says, opening a pair of glass doors. I follow her in awe, and I’m floored by the natural light flooding in, despite the snow-covered landscape. Flourishing plants thrive in every corner of the solarium, and a small fountain trickles in the center.
“Do you live on premises?” I ask.
She laughs lightly. “No, dear. But I’ve been with the Solkov family for over twenty years.”
“I’m sure you’ve seen some things.”
“I have,” she confirms.
“Have the Solkovs always been in the mafia?”
“That’s a better question for your fiancé.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I mumble, following her out of the solarium.
Galina continues showing me around. We see the guest rooms, a private gym, a library with a spiral staircase, and finally, a bedroom that’s been prepared for me.
The bed is made with military precision, and the pillows look fluffier than clouds.
A white satin robe lay on the bed with white house slippers.
A fire crackles in the fireplace, filling the bedroom with a soft glow, and jet lag hits me out of nowhere, making me ready to climb into bed.
“I hope it’s to your liking,” Galina says.
“It’s… beautiful. Thank you,” I murmur, overwhelmed by the luxuriousness of it all.
“Lunch should be ready—”
We are interrupted when I hear Nikolai’s voice echo from downstairs. I freeze when I hear a woman saying my name. Nikolai responds calmly, and the female’s voice returns sharp and clipped.
Galina touches my arm, pulling me from the conversation. “Come. It’s time.”
“Who is that woman?” I ask. She doesn’t respond, only waves me to follow her. So, I do, and we descend together. At the bottom of the stairs, Nikolai stands beside a woman in a fur-lined coat, her silver hair pulled into a regal twist. Her eyes are piercing blue, and her posture is flawless.
“My sweet Mira,” Nikolai says, his voice softer now. “This is my mother, Yulia,” he says, motioning in the severe woman’s direction. She steps forward, her gaze sweeping over me like a scanner. Then, to my surprise, she smiles.
“Welcome to our home,” she says in perfect English. “I’ve heard much about you.”
I don’t know what to say, and settle on nodding like an idiot.
She reaches out and takes my hand. “Come. Let’s talk.”
* * *
I follow Yulia into the dining room, still unsure how to breathe around her presence. She moves like royalty—graceful and composed, with a gaze that could cut through steel. I expect coldness and judgment, but instead, she graciously pulls out a chair for me herself.
“Sit,” she says gently. “You must be starving.”
“I am. Thank you. I don’t remember the last time I’ve eaten.”
“Nikki didn’t feed you?”
Nikki? How cute!
Nikolai is in mid-conversation with one of his men when his head snaps in our direction.
“I tried feeding her, but she’s stubborn,” he answers, miffed at being accused of fiancée negligence.
“To be fair, he tried, but sleep seemed more appealing at the time.”
“Shame. You must take care of yourself, Mira. These Russian winters can be so…unkind.”
“Thank you for the advice,” I reply cautiously.
She smiles warmly.
“I expect you to be mistrusting of me, Mira, but I have no ill will towards you. I have been badgering my son for years to settle down, and I’m just grateful it’s not that spoiled nitwit Irina.”
“Who is Irina?” I ask curiously as we shed our outerwear and pass them to the staff.
“The Pakhan’s roguish daughter,” Yulia explains, taking her seat.
I take mine as well, just as the servers begin laying platters of mouthwatering glazed roasted duck, beet salad with goat cheese and walnuts, steaming bowls of borscht, and fresh rye bread.
The servers then fill our wine glasses with what appears to be spiced wine.
“Did they date?” I ask, carefully selecting the appropriate silverware.
“They did not. Thank the Heavens. Eat. You’ll need your strength.”
I take a bite of the duck, and it melts on my tongue.
Elena watches me for a moment, then folds her hands. “You’re overwhelmed.”
I nod slowly. “I didn’t expect…any of this.”
She smiles, but it’s tinged with something bittersweet. “No one ever does. My Nikki has a way of pulling people into his orbit. It’s not always gentle, but you’re here, alive and protected. That means something.”
I don’t respond, and Elena takes the chance to lean in and whisper, “You’re not the first woman to fall into his world. But you might be the first to survive it with your soul intact.”
“Mama. Don’t fill her head with nonsense,” Nikolai says, leaning down to kiss the top of my head. I reach for my glass and take a sip of the warmed wine. It’s delicious, and I can’t help but sample more.
“It’s not nonsense if it’s the truth.”
“Please behave yourself, Mama,” he warns. “Mira, I need to take a phone call in my office. See me before you leave.”
Leave? Where am I going?
He walks off without waiting for a response.
Yulia and I eat in silence for a while while the staff tiptoes around us, clearing plates and refilling glasses.
I feel like I’ve stepped into a dream I didn’t ask for—one lined with velvet and guarded by men with guns.
We make polite conversation. I tell her all there is to know about me, which isn’t much, and she tells me about life in Russia and a little family history.
“It’s time to meet Nikki,” Yulia announces, dabbing at her lips with her linen napkin before leaving the table.
I join her and we arrive at a long corridor lined with oil paintings and antique sconces.
Everything is polished, and the air smells like old money.
When we reach the office, the door is slightly ajar, and we pause.
“Mira, do you wish to know how to make Nikolai happy?”
“I have no choice.”
“Oh, dear. We all have a choice,” she replies, patting my arm gently.
“Just don’t make the wrong choice. Nikolai isn’t the most gentle man.
In fact, he’s one of the most dangerous beings you could ever meet, but it’s not his job to be gentle—that’s where you come in.
His job is to be loyal and protective. Love will come in time—don’t force it.
Be his peace, his comfort, respect him, and guide him when necessary.
If you do those things, you’ll be alright.
And for Heaven’s sake, don’t allow him to lay hands on you unless it’s in a loving way.
His father tried that with me once, and I almost put him in a grave.
It never happened again. Do you understand? ”
“You want me to hit him back?” I ask in disbelief.
“With whatever blunt object is nearby and at your disposal.”
I crack a smile.
“I have a feeling Nikolai wouldn’t like you giving me this kind of advice.”
“Well, if he behaves himself, then you won’t have to put it to practice,” she says breezily before knocking on the heavy oak door.
“Enter.”
We find Nikolai inside, seated behind a massive desk carved from dark wood. Papers are spread before him, and he’s speaking into a phone in Russian.
He looks up when he sees me. His expression softens instantly.
“Excuse me,” he says into the phone, then hangs up.
He stands, crosses the room, and kisses me—slow, deliberate, like he’s claiming something. I don’t pull away.
Then he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a sleek black card. He presses it into my hand.
“For wedding dress shopping,” he says.
I stare at it, temporarily stunned by the weight of the card. “You’re serious?”
He nods. “You’ll need something unforgettable.”
Yulia chuckles softly behind me. “He’s never been one for subtlety.”
I look down at the card, then back at Nikolai. My heart is a mess of contradictions—fear, longing, disbelief. But one thing is clear.
I’m not just in his world now. I’m part of it.