Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Eva
Tolya’s Penthouse, Day Four
“Here’s the suggested menu for the week, if you would look it over and notate any changes you’d like.” Galina, the housekeeper, requests as she hands me two pieces of thick cardstock paper.
“Of course,” I acknowledge.
Galina is the first woman I met here. Mid-fifties with sharp looks and a no-nonsense Russian work ethic, she’s stern yet kind. She doesn’t speak much English, but we work out a rhythm and she quickly begins to remind me of my aunt – stern, watchful, protective in a prickly pear sort of way.
“I’ll bring it back to you when she’s done.” Mila tells her, sweeping into the room with backpack in hand.
“Thank you Galina,” I say dismissively as I peruse the first page. Then teasingly ask Mila, “Windy out there?”
Dropping her bag abruptly she buries her hands in her hair using her fingers to comb and tame it.
“Chicago definitely earns its nickname as the windy city,” she complains. “I’m about ready to super glue my hair in place at this point.”
She’s been assigned as my personal assistant. Though she’s more like a glorified babysitter.
Mila’s a ray of sunshine in an otherwise dark household. And while her lighthearted demeanor actually makes me laugh, I get the distinct impression that she’s like all the other Russians around me: dangerous beneath the surface.
She shows up every morning promptly at 9am with a long to-do list that’s never that important and a leather briefcase that smells faintly of oil paint and old paper.
Both women have been nice enough to me. Attempting in their own ways to make me feel comfortable and welcome.
The men, however, are an entirely different story. They hate me. Each and every one of them.
While not one of them has dared to say it outright, they don’t have to. It’s in their eyes. Their silence. The stern way they scrutinize me.
The days begin to bleed together as I remain cooped up in the penthouse under lock and key. Tolya has given his men strict instruction not to let me leave unless they receive his express permission.
Only in times of heightened threat have I been held captive within my own home before. And for all intents and purposes, the penthouse is now my home, no matter how much I dislike it. It’s nothing but a gilded cage disguised by a stunning view of the city.
Tolya is barely home. I awake to the sound of the espresso machine each morning, the quiet rustling of the housekeeper and the occasional pit pat of his shoes on the marble floor.
Keeping himself busy with meetings, strategizing power plays, and whatever else mafia kings do behind closed doors.
It keeps him away long enough for me to catch my bearings in this new world.
By the third day, I’ve had enough of pacing the same floor. Today, I’m absolutely over it.
As usual Mila is in the media room, doing whatever it is that she does in the afternoons once all the mediocre tasks are completed.
“I need to get out of here. This place is making me insane,” I yell to Mila from the hallway as I pass the entertainment room where she’s working, grabbing my phone and my purse. “I’m going out.”
I hear papers shuffle and feet scurry against the floor as Mila yells, “Eva, no. You know the rules. Tolya was very specific!”
“Screw Tolya,” I say, waving a dismissive hand as I head for the elevator, “I’m his wife, not his prisoner."
“No.” Mila protests rounding the corner and trotting up the hall to catch up to me. “But you are under watch. If Tolya finds out—”
“If?” I snap back over my shoulder. “You think he doesn’t already know I’m going insane here? That he isn’t doing all of this on purpose?”
Stepping up the stairs of the entryway that leads to the elevator I wave my hand at the guard on duty. “Step aside.”
“No.” He refuses in a cold voice. Standing still as a giant statue.
Mikhail. Or maybe Anton. I don’t know, I can’t remember. They’ve all begun to look the same to me. They all have the same sharp glare and thick accent and not a single one of them has yet to be pleasant to me.
He stands like a brick wall, arms folded across his wide chest, blocking my exit route.
“Now,” I demand.
He doesn’t budge.
“Mrs. Ivanovich,” he says stiffly, like the title tastes bad on his tongue, “you do not leave without an escort.”
“I’m not alone,” I inform him, motioning toward Mila. “She’s with me.”
“She is not a suitable escort.”
“Well then, you can just come with us if you’re so insistent on my having a bodyguard,” I say with a venomous smile.
“You,” he spits back in that thick Russian accent, “are not to be trusted yet. The Pakhan has instructed that you stay here under guard.”
I bristle. His words hit harder than I expected.
I open my mouth to object further, shut it, then open it again.
But there’s nothing I can say that changes the fact that I’m not Russian, I’m an Italian mafia daughter and there’s no reason for them to trust me at all yet.
For all they know I’m a spy implanted by my brother and still loyal to him in every way.
“I’m not a damn hostage,” I finally mutter, turning away and storming past Mila. Ignoring the look of sympathy on her face.
My feet carry me to the media room before I realize where I’m going.
I sink into one of the oversized chairs by the window and the cushion makes a hmph sound as I throw myself onto it.
Planting my face firmly in my hands, I let a few silent tears fall before wiping them away and regaining my composure.
The city beyond is gorgeous from up here and altogether too far out of my reach. My old life and the freedom that came with it feel impossibly far away.
When I finally pull my attention back to the present, I notice a sketchpad sitting open on a nearby table. A graphite pencil sits on top of the open page. Standing, I move to see what’s on it.
The picture drawn there is achingly beautiful. The Chicago skyline, seen from the harbor and drawn in soft graphite. The water and glass towers are shaded to perfection.
I pick the book up and flip through the pages. Picture after picture is painstakingly drawn and shaded in that same pencil. The contrast of whites, greys of all shades and near black—beauty beyond words.
Mila enters the room, bringing with her a tray of hot drinks. I assume they’re meant to lift my spirits.
“Did you draw all of these?” I ask, continuing to thumb through the sketchbook. “They are incredible.”
“Come now, you’re just saying that.” She hesitates, blushing as she sets the tray down on the table.
“I’m really not. I know good art,” I look at her, piercing her with my
awe-filled gaze, “and this is good art.”
“Thank you.” She beams.
“Do you paint as well?” I press, remembering the smells permeating that leather bag she carries each day.
“Some, but I’ve just started to really try to transfer any of my work from sketch to painting,” she says modestly. “It’s more… more challenging than I anticipated.”
“Well let me know if you ever need help, I can teach you technique. You obviously have the talent. I dreamed of going to art school one day, I fear I’ll never get there now. But I don’t have your talent, just your passion.”
That’s the first moment I feel almost normal. Like maybe, just maybe, this place won’t take everything from me.
Later that evening, after Mila and Galina have left for the day, I find myself wandering the rooms once more. That same stone-faced guard remains by the elevator, blocking my one path to freedom.
I finally decided that a conversation with him is better than continuing in boredom alone.
“Why do you hate me? Is it just because I’m Italian?” I ask. “I’m not here to make enemies. The whole point of my marrying your boss was to broker peace between our families. The women seem to trust me easily enough, why not you?”
“They pretend to trust you,” he replies coldly. “Your presence here is nothing more than a game. You’re here to look like peace. But you’ll always be an Italian, nothing more. When it comes down to it, when it really matters, you’ll pick them. Not us. Not Tolya.”
Mid-sentence, the elevator dings behind him and when the doors open they reveal Yaro within. I stiffen. Happy for the interruption and not having to respond to his accusations. Because, really, there’s nothing I can say to that. Not knowing myself whether his words are true or not.
“You should watch how you speak to her, Mikhail,” Yaro warns, his tone venomous. “She is the Pakhan’s wife and is due the respect of her station. Regardless of your personal opinions on the matter.”
The room seems to freeze as Tolya’s second-in-command speaks. The guard stiffens instantly, his mouth snapping shut as Yaro steps up to him. Toe to toe. His sharp suit and dark eyes make him all the more menacing.
“She is not your comrade,” Yaro continues, voice low and packed with danger. “She is not your woman. She is his. And that means she is beyond reproach.”
Mikhail opens his mouth to speak, but Yaro’s hand shoots out, gripping his collar.
“Un-fucking-touchable,” he growls. “One more word of disrespect comes from your mouth and I will feed you your own tongue. Understood?”
Mikhail nods, eyes darting to the wall.
Yaro releases him with a shove. “You’re done here. Get out of my sight before I change my mind and make your head into my gym bag.”
The man leaves without another word, disappearing into the elevator.
I exhale a heavy breath. One I hadn’t realized I’ve been holding.
Yaro turns to me and runs a hand through his hair, expression softening, just barely. Suddenly, he reminds me of my brother Nico.
“Apologies.” He says. “I’ll talk to Tolya and ensure Mikhail is no longer put on your guard detail. Obviously it is not the correct assignment for him.”
I nod, swallowing down a knot in my throat. “Thank you.”
Dipping his head. “Tolya asked me to stay with you this evening. He’s tied up for a few more hours.”
“So… what, you’re on babysitting duty?” I blink.