Chapter 15
ARIA
I have no idea what time it is when I wake, but the bed is empty. It feels like the middle of the night, inky black still outside the window.
Mikhail is nowhere to be found. My mouth feels dry and my stomach aches. I have a vague memory of him offering me food, but I was exhausted and just wanted to sleep.
I open one eye and look about the room. I see his cell phone plugged in on a nearby table, and a second phone beside his with a little note beside it. His script is firm and bold, in slanted lines with no frills or whimsy.
Of course.
Aria,
This is your new phone, monitored by me.
All online access, including social media, is restricted and recorded.
You may reach out to your friends — women only. They’ll know you’ve been married by now. Make up whatever story you need to.
You do not talk to men other than my brothers without my express approval.
You have a credit card under your name and may buy whatever you want, but if I buy something for you, I expect you to wear it.
You will post nothing or tell anyone about our life or my family’s. I expect loyalty. In return, your needs will be provided for.
You will only socialize with people I approve of.
There will be no working outside the home. There is no need, and I will not have you unnecessarily in danger. You will, however, be asked to work for me. We need your skills. You will be well compensated.
We’ll discuss what you are doing and when. You will not be allowed outside of the home or to travel without my express permission.
You know what will happen if you disobey any of these rules.
—M
Some of this — the phone, social media, where I go and when — doesn’t surprise me.
Overbearing? You bet your ass. But overbearing is his middle name.
I don’t expect he can have a wife putting any of his family or herself at risk.
The socialization thing is laughable. I have no friends and love being alone.
The online access is tricky, though. I love what I do and crave to feel the power of a laptop under my fingers.
I actually give myself a little time to pout over that one.
I sigh and read it over again. I mean, fine, I’ll wear whatever he gets me, yeah.
And a credit card? I’ve been living off ramen and dollar store toiletries, so that sounds pretty sweet.
But if I don’t have access to doing what I love…
I slide the note to the side and touch the screen on the phone. It jumps to life in vivid detail.
2:23 a.m. Why isn’t he in bed?
I settle back into bed with my new phone, holding my breath at how fast it operates, how easily I’m able to glide from one task to the next.
Maybe…I can get a laptop?
My laptop. I sit upright in bed, my heart pounding. What happened to my laptop? What did they do with my possessions?
Ugh. It’s gone. Lost. There’s no way I can recover that now.
I have to get something to eat.
I push up out of bed and feel an ache across my ass. Oh God. He did that, didn’t he? He totally went there.
I remember what it was like being over his lap. I remember I came so hard I couldn’t breathe when he was done.
Yeah, I am in so much trouble.
To think I was afraid of getting close to him. Now I’m half a breath away from calling the man Daddy.
Gah.
I look around the room for something to wear. He said something about clothing on that note…He doesn’t need to tell me that walking around his house naked isn’t a good idea. I got that memo loud and clear.
There’s a closed door to what might be a closet, so I turn the handle.
I cover my mouth with my hand. This is the biggest closet I’ve ever seen in my life. I could set up an entire office in this closet.
Will he let me?
Shoes and handbags, dresses and jeans. Tees and all sorts of leggings and skirts…wow.
Why does he have so much feminine stuff in here?
Did he buy this stuff? Wait. Is it…for me?
So am I expected to wear it?
On a small hook by the door hang several lovely robes in the softest material, beside matching fluffy slippers.
Well, then.
I wrap a soft blue robe around my body and slide my feet into slippers. I feel a little like a princess, and we’re just warming up here.
My stomach rumbles again with hunger. Where is he? I don’t much care about what he’s doing so much as I’m not crazy about the idea of stumbling into him unawares. He’s a tiger, after all. He’ll definitely bite.
I open the door and try to get the layout here. His room is on the second floor, and from here, much like the guest room I was in before, I can see the moonlit view of the Manhattan skyline. It’s gorgeous, with high-rises and moonlight glinting over the brilliant blue of the water.
From what I’ve seen and what I’ve pieced together, I can tell this is a luxurious, high-end home nestled prominently in The Cove. Expansive glass windows and modern architecture give it a striking, minimalist appeal with clean lines and vast rooms.
Even with only moonlight illuminating what I see, I can tell already we’re right on the water.
It looks like there’s a terrace and garden out front, with soft, ambient light strips along the stone pathway and interspersed throughout the garden.
It lends an elegant aesthetic to the home that might be too harsh without the touch of green and light.
And yet…it’s past two o’clock in the morning. Does the house not sleep, much like its master?
I think back on the note he left me. I’m allowed to roam this house, I’m just not…how did he put it? You will not be allowed outside of the home or to travel without my express permission.
I start toward the top of the stairs and breathe in deeply. This is the next stage of my life. I came here under duress and I wouldn’t be here if I truly had a choice.
With every step I take, I can feel the punishment he administered earlier tonight. I can’t help but wonder how this is going to work between the two of us. How will I maintain who I am — my identity, my autonomy, my self-worth — while married to a man that’s stripped me of everything?
He's spared me my life…but at what cost?
I hear the faintest sound of music playing. I stand still and close my eyes so I can concentrate. Where is it coming from? It’s not on this floor, but the main one.
I pad noiselessly down the gleaming hardwood stairs in my fluffy slippers and cinch the belt on my robe a bit tighter. My stomach growls, reminding me of my errand. First, I want to know what the music is. It’s something hauntingly familiar.
The night feels enchanted, bathed in moonlight, the quiet broken only by the music that gets a bit louder as I walk down the stairs. The view outside the windows looks solemn as the world sleeps, but when I get a little closer, I can see the earth is frosted in ice.
Now that’s why I have the robe and slippers.
On the main floor, I take in my surroundings. The living room that already holds quite a few memories for me — where we took vows, my momentary life as a princess. Then later, lying over his lap while he gave me the first spanking of my life. Our wedding night consummation.
I wonder idly if his group demands consummation.
If so, we have nothing to worry about. I know hardly anything about organized crime, but I do know the basics.
Those within the group are bound to secrecy and loyalty.
There’s a hierarchy, and my husband’s at the top.
They are wealthy and own property, business, territory.
From what Tatiana told me, they own all of The Cove.
But there are other basic tenets of mafia life I’ve already seen firsthand. They use intimidation and violence to get what they want. They break the law. Those in charge demand complete obedience and will not hesitate to enforce rules.
I find I’m following the sound of the music even as my heart beats faster and I have the strange feeling I shouldn’t be up and prowling about this house. I’m curious what Mikhail might do when he finds me. Or, more accurately…when I find him.
As I walk, I mentally catalog the layout. It’s gorgeous here with clean, vertical lines and a sense of tranquility. It’s a little surprising that for someone who values secrecy and privacy, his home has oversized windows that bring in natural light during the day and moonlight at night.
It's an oasis in here. Past the living room, an open doorway leads to a sitting room. There’s a doorway to a bathroom and another to what looks like the kitchen. I don’t explore, though, because I’m drawn to the music.
It’s a piano. Someone’s playing a piano. Since we’re the only ones here, it must be Mikhail.
He has a piano.
I want to leap for joy.
When I find it, I almost turn away. Will he be upset if I interrupt him now? He doesn’t have the friendliest personality, one might say.
But as I stand in the doorway, I’m haunted by the music.
I close my eyes, trying to remember where I’ve heard it before.
It’s…Russian, yes, I remember. While Tchaikovsky is likely the most famous of all Russian composers, there are so many lesser-known composers that were arguably even more skilled.
At least in my opinion. I’ve always been one to root for the underdog.
Lobanov, Roslavets, Feinberg. Yes, I remember it now, Feinberg Piano Sonata No.12, Op. 48: II. Intermezzo…his piano sonatas are hauntingly beautiful. I took one course on composers years ago to satisfy a prerequisite for my degree. I never forget anything.
I lean against the doorframe, lost in the music. The rise and fall of the notes, expressive and hauntingly beautiful, makes my heart ache. I feel sad yet hopeful, energized yet calm. They say that the sound of a composition is impacted by the person playing it.
While I stand here, effectively intruding on his playing, I feel as if I’m dancing through myriad emotions. I’m walking on the beach, dancing in moonlight, the waves lapping on the shore…yet not alone. The melody, like an untamed cat, begs to be stroked before it pounces away.