Dmitri
Chapter Ten
“You still shouldn’t have broken into the Zhukov house alone. You should have taken one of the men with you,” I reprimanded her, my voice firm as I examined the documents she had discovered in Andrei’s safe, cleverly concealed beneath the floorboards in his bedroom.
“If I hadn’t, you wouldn’t have known Larissa’s true identity,” she retorted, defending her actions with unwavering conviction.
Everything I thought I knew about Andrei Zhukov crumbled to dust. The revelation was staggering—Lara wasn’t even his biological daughter. She wasn’t Russian at all. She was Italian. “Fucking hell, Giovanni Balestrini.” I never thought I would hear that name ever again.
Just as Gisela pushed herself up from her chair, a soft knock echoed at the door. It creaked open slowly, revealing Camile standing on the other side. “Sorry to interrupt. But do you have a moment to talk?” she asked, her voice gentle yet purposeful.
Camile had spent most of the afternoon with Larissa, as I had instructed her to do. I had asked her to inform me if Lara said or did anything inappropriate, and I was eager to learn what had transpired.
“We will speak later,” I assured Gisela, glancing at her. She nodded in understanding and dipped her head slightly before leaving the room, granting Camile and me privacy.
“I have a favor to ask of you,” Camile announced, her voice taking on a playful lilt.
Instead of settling into the chair across from my desk, she glided toward me with deliberate grace, lowering herself to her knees with a provocative demeanor, her fingers reaching for the buckle of my belt.
“I’ll be a good girl, just like old times. ”
Camile had once been a delightful distraction, but over time, her constant demands for attention grew tiresome. One thing I couldn’t stand was a needy woman. “Stand up, Camile. Tell me what this is about,” I requested firmly.
Her lips curled into a pout as she rose to her feet, smoothing out the fabric of her skirt with deliberate care.
“Ms. Zhukov chose her wedding dress, and since it needs alterations, I need her to come to the shop so I can ensure they’re done correctly.
With only two weeks left to prepare for the wedding, it must be tomorrow; otherwise, it will disrupt my schedule. ”
Lara’s previous defiance had already shortened the preparations for the wedding by two weeks. I needed this day to be flawless, and that meant Larissa had to look her absolute best. “I’ll make sure she is there,” I promised.
“Good. Bring her to the shop around noon,” Camile instructed. She leaned over, placing her hands gently on my chest before bestowing a chaste kiss near my lips. With a playful sway of her hips, she exited my study, leaving behind a faint trace of her perfume.
~***~
Stepan maneuvered the SUV to a stop in front of Camile’s boutique, and a wave of doubt washed over me about bringing Lara here.
She had been jittery all morning, her anxiety palpable.
The intel Gisela had unearthed on Giovanni Balestrini had kept me on edge too.
Most unsettling was discovering he was the don of the Cosa Nostra in Boston—the very city where Larissa had been in hiding for the past three years.
The Cosa Nostra was the shadowy force behind my mother’s death, and since that harrowing event on my eighteenth birthday, they had kept their distance.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that might change once they learned I had the don’s daughter.
Yet the question lingered: why was she in the custody of Andrei and Lidia Zhukov?
As we stepped out of the SUV, Stepan and I were on high alert, our senses sharpened by the information Gisela uncovered.
The bridal shop loomed ahead, its windows reflecting the morning light.
Inside, Camile awaited us, impeccably dressed in a tight black pencil skirt, a vibrant green silk blouse, and stiletto heels that clicked authoritatively on the tiled floor. She was the epitome of elegance.
“Dmitri, Ms. Zhukov, thank you for coming and sparing me some time from your busy schedule,” Camile greeted us warmly, her smile wide and welcoming.
“It’s Lara. Please call me Lara,” my kukolka —my little doll—responded, catching me off guard with her relaxed tone.
“Of course,” Camile nodded with a gracious smile. “Dmitri, please make yourself comfortable in the waiting area. I’ve arranged for my assistant to serve you some appetizers and champagne while you wait.”
I sank into the plush chair, its cushions enveloping me, and watched as Camile’s assistant—Oliva, if my memory served me correctly—delicately poured a glass of champagne, bubbles rising in a delicate dance.
Forty-five minutes had trickled by since Camile had spirited Lara away for the alterations on her wedding gown.
Though patience was usually my strong suit, I found myself restless, wondering how long it could possibly take to pin a few seams in a dress.
Just as I resolved to make my way to the door where Camile had disappeared, Oliva reappeared, halting my advance.
“Is there something I can assist you with, Mr. Antonov?” she inquired with a polite, professional demeanor, her voice smooth and composed.
“I was going to check on my fiancée to see what was taking so long,” I replied, feeling the threads of my patience wearing thin.
“These things take time,” she suggested, casting a glance toward the door. “Let me find out how much longer they will be.”
Nodding, I settled back into the chair, my eyes following her as she walked purposefully toward the door leading to the room where Camile and Lara were.
Her heels clicked on the polished floor, echoing softly in the quiet hallway.
Fifteen minutes later, Camile emerged, but Lara was conspicuously absent.
Immediately, I rose with the force of a storm gathering beneath my skin, my presence darkening the room.
“Where the hell is she?” I demanded, seizing Camile by the hair and yanking her head back until I could see the glint of pain flickering in her eyes.
“I don’t know,” she stammered, my grip on her hair tightening like a vise. “I thought she came out here, and you two had already left, but when Oliva came to get me to let me know you were wondering when we would be done, I knew something was wrong.”
“How long?” I pressed, my voice a low growl.
“I don’t know,” she hesitated, fear shading her voice. “Maybe half an hour.”
I pulled Camile’s face closer to mine, our breaths mingling in the tense air. “So help me, God. If you had anything to do with this, you will regret it for the rest of your life.”
I had never killed a woman, but if Camile had any part in Lara’s escape, she would wish for death.
The only thing sparing her from immediate demise and instead earning her a severe punishment was the tracker embedded in Lara’s neck.
On the night we took her from Boston, I confirmed her virginity and had a tracker inserted.
I had anticipated the day my kukolka would attempt to flee.
The prospect of her punishment thrilled me, the idea of it sending a dark thrill through my veins.
I might even carry it out in the torture chamber.
There was nothing more exhilarating than the sight of fear illuminating her eyes.
~***~
“Where are you, kukolka ? I know you’re here somewhere.” I stared down at the tracker app on my phone as I walked down the streets in Midtown.
I had Stepan by my side as I cursed beneath my breath that Lara would put herself in danger and come to this part of Manhattan.
She had to be hiding in one of these makeshift cardboard shelters.
I could smell her scent. Everything from vomit to who knew what stuck to the bottom of my $3000 Berluti shoes.
Everything I wore from head to toe would need to be burned.
Every crappy tent or cardboard box I looked into, I found nothing but a strung out junky going through withdrawals or a passed out drunk sleeping with not a care in the world. She had to be here somewhere. The dot on the app couldn’t be wrong.
I looked sideways and something, or rather someone, caught my eye.
A flash of pink attached to a pair of legs I would know anywhere rounding the corner of an old building the homeless were using as shelter.
Signaling to Stepan, he took off in the opposite direction to end up on the other side of the block while I headed in the direction that Lara had gone.
By the time I turned the corner, Stepan had her in his grasp—her legs and arms moving in every direction—slamming her fists against his back.
“Let me go, you asshole,” she cursed while a grin of satisfaction spread across Stepan’s face.
Stepan was a big man, but even he didn’t tolerate brats. “Shut the fuck up.” He did the exact thing I would have done and slapped his large hand across her perfect ass. The only difference was when she got to the mansion, it would be bare when she received her punishment.
Stepan lowered her down from his shoulder and set her on the ground. I placed my hands on her shoulders and turned her to face me. Placing my thumb and forefinger under her chin, I squeezed it enough to make her yelp.
“You knew what would happen if you disobeyed me?” I waited for her to respond, but she only nodded her head.
“Words, Lara,” I warned.
“Yes,” she hesitantly replied, before lowering her head. “I’m sorry.”
Her green eyes reeled me in, but instead of forgiving her, I clasped my hand around her neck and led her to the SUV.
She would be in for a surprise once we got to the mansion.
I wouldn’t be locking her in a cell in the torture chambers, but she would be receiving a punishment that would hurt as well as give her pleasure.
The severity all depended on how honest she was about Camile helping her escape.
I still felt she had something to do with it.