Chapter 5
Vivi
The first week of married life came with no true settling of nerves, no real learning of routines. Ivan is unpredictable in most aspects except for one area: he expects to have my body before he goes to sleep. This is not a consistent time of night or even day; it is simply whenever it fits into his daily schedule.
He takes me during the early hours of the morning, after he’s just come in from some ungodly task, or in the middle of the day after meeting with members of the Five at the Bastoni e Pietre, while the housekeeping staff vacuums the hallway outside of the door.
He fucks me out of a sound sleep in the dark hours of the night, makes my body sing, then rolls to his side and falls asleep within minutes of finishing.
It is difficult to tell if he is doing it because this is just how he lives or if he is trying to mess with my head. As long as his schedule is so unpredictable, I can’t form an anchor in this new life. I can't figure out how to assert more authority over myself and relax into my new identity as Ivan Romanov’s wife.
It’s a conundrum I find myself chewing over when I ought to be sleeping.
Ivan slept from the early evening into the night. I laid beside him while he slumbered, unable to sleep for all the times my rest had been disturbed in the past week. The fact I lie awake makes no difference to Ivan. He sleeps easily…peacefully, even, his arm clutching onto me and holding me close.
The buzzing of his phone stirs him awake at midnight. His face is turned toward me, and I’m watching as his eyes blink open and focus on me.
“Wife.” His voice is gravelly with the remnants of sleep.
Without thinking, I reach across the scant inches that separate us and touch the bare curve of his pectoral muscle, tracing the tattoo inked there.
“Husband.”
For one fleeting moment, I think I see a trace of softness in his gaze.
Then the phone buzzes again, and the look is gone, hardened to steel. He rises without another word and leaves.
It hurts this time, for some reason. What is he doing? Where does he go when he leaves on these midnight calls?
I stare at the ceiling as a square of light travels across its stark white canopy, the movement matching the pace of a small boat creeping up the river on a lazy day.
I’m still awake an eternity later when a knock sounds at the door. I stand and throw on the robe I’ve learned to keep close to the bed, moving toward the door.
“Yes?”
The door swings open swiftly, revealing Brodie. Before I can react, he places his hand over my mouth and shoves himself into the room.
What the—?
I go to scream, but he shushes me, eyes pleading. “I’m a friend, Vivi.”
Reluctantly, I nod, and Brodie slowly lifts his hand. “Explain yourself,” I hiss softly.
Brodie nods. “Of course. I will. We’re pressed for time, but the main thing you need to know is that years ago, right before your brother disappeared, he sent me to work for the Romanovs.”
I gasp.
“He wanted eyes on the Russians, and the Romanovs in particular. I am so sorry for not being able to warn you the night Ivan showed up at the Valachi house. Ever since Lulu and Damon came back—”
“What did you say?”
Lulu and Damon were dead. It was confirmed. There was a funeral and everything.
Closed caskets.
No, it was enough for Angel to come back to me; my sister is gone. I can’t be greedy.
And yet, Brodie’s gaze communicates a vastly different truth. He waits patiently for me to arrive at the correct conclusion, for me to add two and two and get one thousand.
“Are you saying…you’re telling me…they’re—”
As my mind whirls and reality dips and spins and does a hard reset, Brodie nods, as if understanding exactly what is happening inside me.
“I wanted to tell you. I hated locking that door on you every day. You must understand that I was working for a bigger plan, and I had my instructions.”
“What plan? Instructions from whom? Who told you to let me go on believing my sister was dead?”
My voice cracks, and I lift the back of my hand to swipe at the tears streaking unchecked down my face. “Never mind.”
Brodie’s hands settle on my shoulders and squeeze. “It’ll be all right. Tonight, you are getting out. It's all been arranged. I just need to get you to the side garden. Vivi, you are going home tonight.”
“Home.”
“Yes, home.”
Home. A place where the world was stable, secure, the place where I could go into rooms without cages, where all of the locks had keys that belonged to me.
Even though it was never a place marked by a mother’s sweet softness or a father’s protective embrace, home was always Lulu and Angel and my piano and the garden and—
Something inside me loosens and unfurls, and a hoarse sob escapes. I press my fingers hard against my lips to keep it quiet, but Brodie has already heard.
Home won’t be the same place it once was; I know that. Angel had Mother sent to a rehab facility, and as far as I know, she’s still there. Or maybe she’s not; I don’t know. She has her escape.
Brodie could be telling the truth about Damon and Lulu, but seeing is believing. The last time I was in that house, Lulu's room was nothing but a dusty shrine. And Angel…?
I turn and shrug the robe away, stepping quickly toward the closet. Brodie keeps his eyes on the floor as I grab some pants and a dark shirt and hastily dress myself.
“What about Angel?” I ask, pitching my voice low.
His gaze flickers up, and he wrinkles his nose, as if processing a distasteful scent. “I'm sorry.”
I slip my feet into flat-heeled shoes with a brief nod. That makes sense. Angel messed up, big time. I’m not certain who is here to get me, but I have my suspicions. There is no way they would orchestrate a rescue that included him. Even if they could manage to get to the sitting room downstairs where Angel is being kept, there is no guarantee that Enzo, Cassidy, or Luca wouldn't put a bullet in his head when they saw him.
No, as painful as it is, I have to leave Angel behind tonight. After dressing, I pause in front of Brodie. “I’ll be coming back for him,” I say.
“I wouldn’t assume otherwise,” he says.
Brodie opens the door to the hallway, looks in both directions, and then pulls a dining cart into the room.
I tilt my head to the side. “Seriously? We are going to try the nineties family sitcom approach to this?”
“It’s just long enough to get you to the kitchen.”
Closing my eyes, I shake my head. “You have to be kidding me. You’ve been hiding for all of these years, and this is your big plan? Brodie…this is ridiculous. It’ll never work.”
Brodie breathes through his nose, clearly annoyed but just as clearly holding his irritation at bay. “Just to get you to the kitchen, yes. Come on.”
Muttering to myself, I climb onto the bottom of the cart, curling myself tightly into a ball and thanking God for all the morning Pilates sessions I endured. This has to be the single most cliche moment of my life, and I’ve had a few.
As the daughter of the Don of the most powerful mafia family in NYC, there have been plenty of other moments where I’ve thought to myself, "Yeah, this is exactly what would happen in a mafia movie."
As I got older, I figured out the reason for those déjà vu moments was because Hollywood used the mob to churn out their movies and television programs. Stories of ex-mafiosos who broke the Code of Omerta by siding with the Feds, stories of capos exacting revenge for their dons, stories of blood and honor. Some of their movies were based on real things that happened in our world.
But traveling down a hallway under the white tablecloth of a dining cart was usually reserved for slapstick comedies and primetime humor. I feel like a fool, curled into a ball while the cart strains under a weight it wasn't built to carry.
Brodie leads the cart to a servant's elevator, its wheels squeaking faintly against the low pill of the Oriental carpet. My stomach feels the movement of the elevator as we get on and begin our descent, and then I hear the sound of the doors opening.
Brodie pushes the cart forward and stops so suddenly I have to stifle a gasp.
“What is all of this?”
I don’t recognize the voice, but it’s accompanied by the squawk of a radio, so it must belong to one of Ivan’s security personnel. When Brodie replies, his tone is unruffled.
“Mrs. Romanov requested a full dinner service tonight.”
“This late? You have to be fucking kidding me.”
“I'm not fucking kidding you.”
“It's bad enough that we have to babysit her brother, but now that spoiled princess is ordering room service in the middle night like she’s at the fucking Ritz.”
“Yeah, well, it's nothing Ivan hasn't done before.”
“She isn't Ivan.”
Brodie laughs, the sound cruel. “Believe me, I know.” I know that he’s playing along, but it’s frightening all the same. It’s all too convenient. What if this was a test? What if Brodie was luring me out of my room just for Ivan to discover me and see that I was ready to abandon him? This all could be part of an elaborate plan to punish me physically and psychologically. Give her some small hope of returning home, only to shatter it.
But to my relief, the cart once again moves forward, the wheels squeaking an aching chorus to the frantic beat of my heart.
When it stops, I can't see light through the tablecloth anymore and know we’re in a dark space. Brodie’s voice comes softly.
“It’s safe. You can come out now.”
Limbs stiff, I crawl out into a stainless-steel kitchen, pristine and perfect. Something made more for a five-star restaurant than a single-family home. Brodie stands beside a door leading to the outdoors, peering into the darkness of the night.
“You just need to make it to the end of the house, and someone will be waiting for you.”
I hesitate on the threshold. “Who?”
Brodie holds the door open for me. “I don't know. I was just told that someone will be there. Now, listen. Ivan has this place covered in cameras. You need to stay flat against the wall until you reach your target. That's the only way to stay out of the cameras' range.”
I continue to hesitate, one hand curling into a fist. This entire plan seems fraught with gaps from start to finish. “How will we get away from the house, then? We can’t stay next to the building the entire time.”
Brodie looks at me, then. “You’re going to be spotted, but the idea is that you will already be exiting the property when it happens. No one will have time to respond, and you will be gone.”
I give a stilted nod. It’s not perfect, but it will work, and the idea of home beckons like flame. “Okay, then. Why? Why are you doing this for me?”
He smiles, a brief upward quirk of his lips. “I don't have your name, but I am Valachi. My father and grandfather both served your family. When I have a son, he will serve you, too. Now, go.”
I do as instructed. I keep to the brick wall, feeling the way the coarse texture seems to grasp onto the fabric of my clothing as I slide toward the end of the house, which is further away than I expected. In the dark, silhouetted against the lights of the front lawn, I can see a shape at the edge of the building, but the lights are so bright beyond this person that I can't make out any details.
Please, if you are there, God, don't let that be Ivan.
When I finally reach them, and my eyes adjust fully to the darkness, I recognize her immediately.
Rowan.
Relief roars through me. If it weren't for the situation, I would be screaming and jumping into my friend's arms.
Rowan turns to me, and I can see the same affection and relief on her face. Rowan swipes at a tear and reaches for me.
“Rowan…how did you convince your brother to let you do this?”
“It wasn’t Cassidy. When you tell a man like Enzo that you want something, he makes sure his wife gets it.”
I draw back just enough to look her in the eye. “Really? I would think that Enzo, especially, wouldn't want you here.” Angel had done much damage to our alliances, and I wasn’t sure how much Ivan was doing to help mend things.
“Vivi, after everything that has happened, would you trust anyone else?”
The truth is, I wouldn't. Most of the people I trust are dead or captured.
I look around, ensuring we haven’t been spotted. The grounds are still and silent around us. “Is it true? About my sister?”
Rowan’s features soften. “Oh, Vivi. Yes. It's true. There is so much to tell you, but we will catch up as soon as we get you out of here.”
“But how are we going to do that?”
Rowan grins a cheeky smile. “It’s my turn to be resourceful,” she says, referencing the time I helped her evade her guards and explore New York. “We bought the property next door. We have been slowly chipping away at the wall here. It would’ve been better to have it closer to the house, but the cameras didn’t make that possible. The wall was as close as we could get, so we just have to cross the lawn. But the wall is ready to go. Completely. On the other side, Cassidy, Luca, and Enzo stand ready to take us down to the docks and get you on a boat to your home. We just need to get through this part. It's going to be scary. Very scary. But I know you can do it.”
I nod, drawing in a deep breath. “I’m going home.”
“Where you belong.”
Rowan reaches into her pocket and presses something. I hear the murmured sound of a phone ringing. It rings three times, and Rowan hangs up. Some kind of signal, then.
With no further warning, the wall at the far edge of the property collapses. Shouts erupt from inside of the house.
“Go!” Rowan grabs my arm, and we start running, Rowan pushes me none too gently toward the hole in the wall.
I can just make out shapes on the other side of the smoke-filled air, shapes of the people who came together to free me.
Freedom.
Home.
Away from Ivan.
Ivan.
Tugging my arm free of Rowan’s hand, I stop.
Rowan stumbles to a halt and spins around to face me, her red hair streaming behind her. “What are you doing?! We only have about a minute before they’re on us—”
“What happens if I leave?”
“What are you talking about? We have to go, Vivi!”
“What happens, Rowan? Ivan will come after me. There will be retribution. Fighting. People will die.”
Rowan draws up straight, her shoulders flattening out. She backs away a step, then another. “That’s our world, Vivi.”
“But I am his wife.”
“He forced you to be his wife. They're coming. Please, let's go.” She reaches for me but backs away another step when I remain standing.
“I made a promise. If I go, nothing is going to change.”
Turning from her outstretched hand, I run toward the house. I reach it just as the front door opens, and men begin to pour out. One of them grabs me roughly, sending me to the ground.
“I’ve got her,” he calls. “Mrs. Romanov is safe!”
Safe.
A single bitter tear gathers in the corner of my eye, but I blink it away. When I twist my head and look back at the wall, Rowan is gone.