NINE
Nastasya
“ E at something.” My father’s gaze remains on the smartphone beside his plate while he scrolls the latest news. “Nobody appreciates a woman with no hips.”
I resist the urge to flick him my middle finger and push the savory tart to the center of the table instead. “I’ve had enough.” I spent all morning in my room, binge-watching stupid dog videos on TikTok while I ate my weight in dry, tasteless snacks.
It’s all my stomach would accept.
Papa looks up from the device with a sigh. “You’re not ten, Nastasya. Do as you’re told.”
Aleksy stands behind my father, to the right. He doesn’t look my way, but the tension in his jaw says he doesn’t like the conflict either.
I could do as I’m told, but “No. I’m not ten.” I fold my arms across my plain sweatshirt. “I’m an adult, Papa, and I can decide when I need to eat.”
My father slams his palm flat on the table and straightens. “When did you last eat?”
I open my mouth to answer, yet he cuts me off.
“A real meal, Nastasya. Not the bullshit you sneak out of the kitchen.”
“Yesterday.” I swallow. I could almost guarantee I know where he heads with this.
“Yesterday.” He nods. “And what did Marcus hear you do this morning?”
I bristle at the mention of the boyevik he stationed at my door overnight. “I don’t know. What did he hear?” The guy should have heard nothing if he minded his goddamn business.
“Your meal didn’t stay in your gut, did it?” Papa lifts one eyebrow and leers with that fucking smirk that tells me he knows he’s won the round. “Are you not hungry, moya malen’kaya roza ?”
I bristle at the way he twists his term of endearment for me. “I’ve lost my appetite.”
“Death is permanent,” he states flatly, reaching for the remainder of his coffee. “Starving yourself does Caroline no favors.”
“I didn’t presume it did.” I just don’t feel the need to eat. “Is there anything else?” I set my hands on the lip of the table to indicate I’m ready to go.
He lowers the sleek glass mug. “There is, actually.” His fingers caress the brass handle.
I place my arms in their earlier position and sigh.
“Your cousin, Lana, will be here later to help you plan for the wedding.”
“Excuse me?” Why that bitch? And since when did this archaic agreement have a date? “How on earth do I plan for the event when I don’t know what he wants?”
“What that Italian fucker wants is of no consequence.” Papa takes a final swig of his drink, his upper lip curled in a sneer as he does. “The bride decides. Am I right?”
“Benito and I haven’t had the opportunity to speak about what you and Gennaro decided yet, but you expect me to plan our big day. What the fuck happened to courtship? A lengthy engagement?” I might not be able to avoid the inevitable, but I sure as shit can delay it until I feel more comfortable with the idea.
Papa chuckles, the sound bouncing off the art-lined walls of the long, crimson-painted room. “Courtship? We aren’t in the eighteenth century, my girl.”
“Then why marry me off like a goddamn asset?”
The legs of his chair scrape across the polished floorboards, Papa’s palms flat on the table’s surface. “You are my daughter,” he roars. “Therefore, you are my asset.”
Aleksy shifts his weight between his polished black boots.
I flick my gaze from his spy to my father’s enraged scowl. “To infer you own me,” I state low and level, “assumes that I’m your property—your slave.” I rise and match his stance as I growl, “I am nobody’s slave.” I push my chair back and turn to leave.
“Take a single step through that door, and the De Santis name will be the only one that brings with it the promise of a home to return to.”
My father’s threat stills me where I stand two steps from the table.
“How long do you expect to survive without the protection your name— my name—provides?”
“The name you’ve dealt away,” I snap, glaring at the floor to my side. “How long do you expect me to survive in the house of my enemy?”
“That’s entirely up to you.”
I whirl on the asshole and stride the length of the dark oak dining table. “You seriously threaten my life? All because I resent you taking away my free will?”
“It is mine to control.” He grins, pushing the envelope as far as he can.
Testing me.
“All I ask for is to speak with Benito before you expect me to make decisions on the event that is your wedding.” I stress the words through a stiff jaw. “This isn’t for me or him. This is for you, so let’s not make any bones about whose big day it’ll be.”
“You might disrespect me, my love, but don’t be foolish enough to believe your new husband will stand for the same insubordination.”
“I don’t disrespect you, Papa. I beg for respect from you.”
He rolls his jaw side to side, gaze hardening.
Aleksy’s shoulders rise with a deep breath.
“Let me speak with my fiancé before Lana arrives.”
“Impossible.” His nose twitches with the word.
“Why?” I shake my head. “When is Lana due?”
His lips twitch. “It isn’t when Lana gets here that’s the problem.” I catch Aleksy shift uncomfortably behind Papa while my father talks. “It’s that Benito doesn’t speak.”
I snort. “Doesn’t speak?” He had plenty to say when we were young. “Since when?”
“It doesn’t matter when.” Papa’s expression tightens as though he reveals more than he wants me to know. “He hasn’t spoken to anybody outside the family for years.”
“Impossible.” Nobody can take a vow of silence and maintain it for that long.
“Apparently not.” Papa tips his head to one side briefly. “Talking to the man will achieve nothing.” His expression hardens. “Therefore, do as you’re fucking told and let Lana help with the preparations.” He clicks his fingers for Aleksy to join the conversation, turning his focus toward his spy and off me. “Nastasya is not to leave the property without me until we find who’s responsible for this attack. Lana will do all the legwork in town; provide her a car and a man to drive her.”
“Yes, pakhan .” Aleksy nods, sharp blue eyes trained on Papa. “Would you like Marcus to continue to detail Miss Stasya?”
Papa’s gaze slides over me, head to toe. “No.” He frowns. “Call in Ivan.”
“Ivan?” I shake my head, imploring both men to see sense. “He’s overqualified for babysitting duty.” The kachki is freaky enough without being assigned to me exclusively.
“Maybe,” Papa agrees. “But he’s more than suitable for the task of protection. Especially if whoever is after you has proven they aren’t afraid to take your life.” His words fade with the final statement, as though the prospect of me being a target confuses him.
“Do these people even know I’m still alive?” I grasp at straws, but I’d rather stay locked in my room than have that scarred assassin follow me around. “Perhaps they’ve moved on, think the job is done?”
“Word travels fast; they’ll know they got the wrong woman before long.” Papa sighs and runs a palm over his face. “Go prepare for Lana. Leave.” He flicks the back of one hand in my direction.
In other words, let me talk to my obshchak alone. I nod, happy enough to comply with this request. Whatever they have to talk about, I’m sure I wouldn’t want to hear it anyway. Aleksy will be in charge of the men posted to take care of Caroline’s body, to come up with a viable cover story, and to make it look like a run-of-the-mill disappearance.
I still haven’t checked the messages on my phone.
Hand to my stomach, I leave the room and head straight for the kitchen to get something dry to settle the rising bile. How can Benito not speak to anyone for years? The man I remember couldn’t keep a single goddamn opinion to himself. But now that I think back, he didn’t say a word last night. I was so caught up in the emotions of the moment that I didn’t pay attention to what was right in front of me: he kept his goddamn mouth shut the whole time.
Why?
I round the corner and step through the doorway to find our chef instructing his kitchen hand on the correct order for cleaning up after the lunch service. Harrison has cooked for our family for decades, but the woman at his side—she’s new. I watch her carefully as I round the large steel-topped island to head for the walk-in pantry. She’s young, but maybe not much more than me. Hispanic and not related to Harrison, given she shares no similarities with the six-foot blond Swede. When did she arrive? And why? What happened to the last kitchen hand?
“Were the tarts not to your liking, Miss Nastasya?” Harrison stops mid-sentence with the girl to address me as I broach the pantry door.
“They were amazing as always, Harry.” I thumb toward the cracker selection on the shelves. “After a little snack.”
“I can cook you something else.” He smiles as though I’ve lost my mind.
“Honestly. This is fine.” I reach for the first packet I come across and clutch it to my chest. “You seem as though you have your hands full already.” I meet the stern gaze of the young woman.
“Not at all.” He holds an arm toward her. “Kim is a quick learner.”
“I didn’t know you needed anyone new.” My suspicion is in overdrive—I know it. But sue me. Some fucker tried to shoot me, so I think I’m allowed to be low-level paranoid.
“Not something we’d bother you with, Miss.”
Harrison’s right; I’m not privy to the day-to-day dealings of the household. Why would I know he has a new staff member? “I’ll let you get back to it.” I smile at the girl and gauge her response.
She continues to stare at me, hard and calculating. I can’t pick if she judges me for who I am or if it’s something more sinister. I duck my head and tear the end of the packet open on my way out of the room and come close to walking smack into Marcus.
“Sorry, Miss.”
I stare into his deep brown eyes and scowl. “Thank you for informing Papa I lost my stomach this morning.” I search his gaze. “Anything else you thought it your place to ‘overhear’?”
His finely sloped features pinch. “Not at all.”
“Good.” I start toward my room, aware he remains close behind. “You’re there to ensure nobody gets into my bedroom, not eavesdrop on everything I do inside.”
“And how am I to tell if an intruder has come into your space another way if I don’t keep a keen ear?”
He’s young, Marcus. From what I’ve seen of him, he’s only been around our family for a few years. Hardened and jaded, he fits right into Aleksy’s brigade. But he has a thing or two to learn about personal space—that much is clear.
I storm into my bedroom and slam the door in his face. This house is my prison cell until they figure out who took Caroline from me. I could scream. Fuck it—I just might. After setting the crackers on my nightstand, I fall face-first into the mattress and bury my nose and mouth into the thick fabric before letting out a frustrated growl. It doesn’t satisfy, so I level it up a notch and scream into the dense bedding as hard as I can. My muted shriek barely breaks the surface, but it’s enough to have Marcus knock at the door.
“Miss?”
I roll to my back and let the tears come as I crack a mad smile. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Marcus.”
He leaves me alone, satisfied since I didn’t recite the phrase I was taught as a child to indicate that I’m in danger without the captor knowing: bright and sunny. I feel anything but. Storm clouds settle over my life, and I don’t even give enough of a fuck to raise an umbrella to the deluge. The hits keep on coming, and I just take it.
Benito doesn’t talk.
I’m not allowed to leave the house.
My irritating cousin will organize my arranged marriage wedding.
Again, Benito doesn’t talk.
The first guy I fell in love with, the man who stole my heart—or should I say the boy who took my virginity—is my betrothed. And I don’t know a damn thing about who he is now.
“Marcus?”
He answers through the door in a heartbeat. “Yes, Miss Nastasya?”
“I need you to do something for me.”
He knocks to indicate he’s about to open the door and then pops his head in the small gap. “How may I help?”
I stare at the ornate plaster ceiling over my four-post bed and close my eyes. “Get me Benito De Santis’s phone number, please.”
I need to know for myself who this stranger is that I marry.