I (One)

by Lana Sky

  “What about Anna?” I rasp.

  Maybe changing the subject to her is my selfish way of turning the tables?

  Or perhaps I just want to compound that aching, lingering pinch in my chest. Only now do I feel spiteful enough to name it. Jealousy?

  “You loved her, didn’t you?”

  “I did,” he admits gruffly. “I do. She’s family.”

  “But as something more?” I’m acting childish now, no better than Eli or Mouse. Even so, I can’t resist pushing him further. “Could you see yourself marrying her? Once the war with the Winthorps is over.”

  He strokes his chin. After a moment, he nods. “Yes. I could marry her.”

  I don’t register cringing from him until he grips my shoulders, dragging me back.

  “I could,” he cruelly insists against my ear. “We’d have a couple of kids. Live in the fucking country somewhere. It would be perfect, Little Rose—except for one thing…”

  My heart throbs as I eye the landscape behind him. If he wants me to respond, I don’t.

  So he answers for me. “Anna isn’t a fucking hellcat.”

  “Bastard!” I lash out with the flat of my hand and he easily evades the blow.

  “She’s too sweet,” he goads. “I don’t think she could ride my cock the way you can—”

  “You’re disgusting,” I spit.

  But he’s laughing and the sound affects me more than if he truly meant his boast. It’s real and lilting, and he doesn’t even seem to realize he’s doing it: feeling something other than rage.

  “Hmm.” His tongue traces his lower lip. “I’d much rather see you bear my child. I could give you a few. Would you want that?”

  “Never!” I thrust my chin into the air indignantly. “What makes you think I’d ever want your baby?”

  “You’re right.” His face falls, and he lets me go. “Why would you?”

  I gape as he pushes past me. By the time I recover from shock, he’s already halfway to the house.

  “Mischa!” I start after him, forced to run to match his pace. Of all the things to prickle through my nerves now, guilt shouldn’t be one of them. “Wait!”

  He makes me chase him into the foyer, ignoring me every step of the way.

  “Mischa.” I pant. “Mischa, wait—”

  Suddenly, he stops short before the staircase and extends his hand toward me. Quiet.

  Beyond him, I finally notice the two other figures already in the foyer, their voices raised.

  “Are you insane?” a man demands. His tone radiates so much raw anger that I barely recognize it at first. Only as I follow Mischa’s gaze do I realize Vanya is the one shouting. “Have you lost your goddamn mind, Sergei?”

  “Have you, Ivan?” In chilling contrast, Sergei’s tone is eerily level. “I’m doing what must be done to protect our name.”

  “Our name? Or your pride?”

  “Why can’t it be both?”

  “Something tells me that this is more than a brotherly squabble,” Mischa says, stepping forward.

  It’s clear from his positioning near Vanya just whose side of the argument he favors out of the gate.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Have you told him? Your leader?” Vanya demands of Sergei. When the latter says nothing, he scoffs. “Of course not. Sergei has called a council tonight in a bid to reinstate himself as acting head. The Pakhan.”

  From Mischa’s fierce expression, it’s clear he doesn’t approve of such a plan.

  “Is that so?” he murmurs, deadly soft. “On what grounds?”

  “On the grounds that you are too reckless to lead,” Sergei says—but his gaze cuts in my direction. “Among other reasons. The mafiya needs stability if there is to ever be peace—”

  “Peace?” Vanya spits on the floor at his feet. “You spout peace but forget the Winthorps—you’re starting a fucking war within your own goddamn ranks!”

  “Am I?” Sergei shrugs. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

  “In the end, this is just pointless.” Vanya throws his hands into the air. “Tell him, Mischa!”

  “Ivan has a point,” Mischa says. “You may have your sway, Sergei, but I doubt that you could even muster enough support for a leadership change regardless.”

  “Perhaps.” Sergei nods. “In any event, my main intent is beyond a respectful challenge.”

  “Oh?” Mischa says before Vanya can bite back.

  “Yes. I’d like to elect a new head to the table—”

  “Of course you would,” Vanya interjects. “Have you learned nothing all these years? Or are you still so fond of your dirty tricks? Which fool have you groomed to be your whipped dog now?”

  “Someone who has more say in ending this war than anyone,” Sergei says, inclining his head.

  “Oh? And who is that?” Vanya demands.

  “The obvious choice: Ellen Winthorp.”

  “What?”

  All three men turn to me, but Mischa’s gaze draws my attention the most. He’s guarded again in an instant—closed from me in a way he hasn’t been since…

  Never. Not even the first day, when he ripped off my blindfold and only saw an enemy.

  “Ellen?” Vanya seems torn between laughing in disbelief and shaking his head. “With all due respect, what right does she have to sit at the table?”

  “She was married to that family,” Mischa says before Sergei can voice his own explanation. “She was married to its fucking head. She can have a say.” He turns and mounts the stairs, leaving Vanya staring after him open-mouthed.

  “M-Mischa—”

  “I won’t fight the appointment,” Mischa declares over him. From the top of the staircase, he adds, “But don’t expect me to roll over, Sergei. You want to play politics. We’ll fucking play.”

  “Mischa…” With one last look at his brother, Vanya follows him, his steps resonating through the manor’s very foundation.

  Their absence drains the room of anger. Left behind is a mixture of Sergei’s quiet observation and my own shock.

  “What are you doing?” I demand, advancing on the older man.

  His eyes flicker over my face, impossible to read. “I’m giving you a chance to state your case,” he says. “Do you want an end to this bloodshed? Mischa may have the council stacked in his favor, but you possess one thing that neither he nor I have.”

  “And what is that?” I rasp.

  He carefully tucks a piece of my hair behind my ear, heedless of how I flinch at his touch. “A voice,” he says. “Your words alone have more impact than any political savvy. Remember that. I hope to see you tonight. If you don’t mind, I’ve already taken care to have a dress delivered to your room.”

  He leaves, disappearing down a corridor at the other end of the hall.

  In this moment, in the center of the marble flooring, I feel more like a pawn than ever.

  And the game is already in checkmate.

  Chapter 16

  I must spend hours pacing this bare fucking room. Marnie’s presence feels realer now more than ever. It’s like she’s mocking me sweetly from the grave: What are you doing, my Rose? Do what I did. Give in…

  Stubbornly, I pace until the tapping of my footsteps drowns her out—but I don’t catch the sound of the door opening until it’s too late. My intruder is already inside, closing the door.

  “You need to get ready,” Mischa snaps, raking his gaze over my rumpled shirt and jeans. “Damn. Do you even have anything to wear—”

  His eyes darken as he approaches the bed and inspects the dress Sergei provided. It’s a deep navy with a bold neckline, made of silk. Mischa must approve of it, because he snatches the fabric in his fist and throws it in my direction.

  “Put it on.”

  “Why?” I croak, letting the dress land in a crumpled heap at my feet. “Aren’t you bored of having me used as a pawn in your twisted games? I know I am—”

  “Sergei wants you as a pawn,” he agrees. “But as for me… I want to see if yo
u even have the balls to play the game. Lift your arms.” He stoops for the gown and gestures for me to undress. “Hurry up. They won’t take you seriously looking like some naïve innocent, Rose. I can assure you of that.”

  “How can I trust you?” Even as I voice the question, I stiffly lift the shirt over my head.

  “You don’t have to,” Mischa counters. He steps in close and tugs on the clasp of my jeans himself. “Use your brain. A man like Sergei wants to manipulate you for his own gain. The only way to outmaneuver him is to outsmart him.”

  “And what about you?”

  I’m naked now, painfully aware of how close he is. His breath bastes the flesh of my throat as he drapes the gown over my head and tugs it into place.

  I watch him work, hunting his expression for a hint of conniving intent. “What do you hope to gain?”

  He looks away. “Believe it or not, Little Rose, I only want the truth… Now, listen. Sergei will invite you to speak. He’ll want you to argue against continuing the war with the Winthorps. But is that what you really want?”

  Ending the war. The violence. The bloodshed. “Shouldn’t that be what you want?”

  “Of course.” He looks me over—but whatever he sees makes him hiss through his teeth. “Turn around.” When I comply, he positions himself behind me and I stiffen as his fingers sink through my hair, parting it roughly.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Improvising,” he grunts in reply. “To answer your question: Of course that’s what I want. But I’m not foolish, Rose. I know that wars rarely end with a handshake and goodwill. Someone tends to wind up with a knife in their back. I would rather this end in a hailstorm of fucking fire than…”

  “Than what?” I demand when he falls silent.

  “Than in checkmate.” He continues to tug at my hair, arranging it with far more confidence than a man like him should have. Once finished, he spins me around and nods in approval. “With Sergei Vasilev at the head of the gameboard, I can’t win this round, but you can. And now, you’re ready.”

  He guides me into the bathroom and I catch sight of our reflections in the mirror.

  “You’re good with your hands,” I grudgingly admit.

  The woman standing before him is a stranger at first. Her hair has been expertly coiled into a knot at the nape of her neck. The navy of her gown highlights the blue of her eyes. For a second, it’s like I’m staring into the past at someone else. The only difference is the prominent scar proclaiming my place in this war: fifteen.

  “You look the part,” Mischa admits.

  My opinion differs. “I look like my mother.”

  “A player,” he corrects. From him, such a term might be a compliment. “But now you need to decide what role you will play. And trust and believe, Little Rose—I won’t go easy on you this round.”

  I flick my fingers along the silk skirt of the dress. “What do I need to expect?”

  The last mafiya gathering I attended proceeded much like an outlaw court.

  Where transgressions were paid for in blood.

  But this meeting, with power on the line?

  My brain shies away from envisioning it.

  “Politics,” he replies. “I trust Vanya with my life—but he is an optimist. If he truly wanted power, Sergei would already have it. For some reason, he seeks to use you.” He brushes my cheek and scowls at his fingers. “Do you remember the man you saw with Nicolai the night he attacked you?”

  I swallow the memories back. “Yes. You brought me to him as well.”

  “Before I knew he was a fucking traitorous prick,” he insists. “But he would have never had the balls to ally against me without sniffing something in the air. Rats are opportunistic, Rose. They only strike when it’s to their advantage.”

  “So what do I do?”

  His lips twitch, part grimace, part smile. “Be the daughter of a Vasilev—but never forget what leverage you have in your possession.”

  With that ominous warning, he steers me back into my room, and together, we enter the hall.

  “When we reach the bottom of these stairs, we won’t be allies,” he warns.

  But I marvel at his use of the word. Have we ever been so aligned? His tone didn’t sound mocking.

  “I didn’t ask for this,” I point out.

  “And that’s why you need to fucking fight.” He snatches my hand, gripping tight, and I stare at our entwined fingers: his rough and callused, mine slim and pale.

  With every step, we draw closer to the line he’s drawn—once past it, we’re enemies again.

  But he takes his time.

  And so do I.

  I’ve only seen an official meeting of the mafiya once before, called to discuss the betrayal of Kostantin Vorshev. But these men, and their twisted society, seem to thrive on consensus, much like a corrupted democracy. In fact, Mischa’s manor sported a space designed for the sole purpose of hosting an enormous gathering.

  Unsurprisingly, Sergei’s home contains such a room as well, located at the rear of the house. It’s spacious, its layout resembling a great hall. Wood-paneled walls create an enclosed atmosphere as marble flooring magnifies every footstep Mischa and I take over it.

  In a grim bit of irony, I recall the pomp and circumstance that took place at Winthorp manor whenever a gathering was hosted there. Such an event would require months of preparation and organization—and if so much as a napkin color deviated from expectation, it would be deemed a massive failure.

  In contrast, Mischa and his ilk seem to thrive on converging with barely an hour’s notice.

  Already, the room is partially filled with men and women gathered around a circle of eleven chairs positioned at the heart of the space. The impromptu layout evokes a sense of authority nonetheless. Those without power to their name seem to congregate on the outskirts, leaving a generous swath of space beyond the seating.

  There doesn’t appear to be a general consensus as to the dress code of this occasion. Some of the onlookers sport suits or dresses like mine. Others wear leather and jeans.

  Dressed in his fatigues, Mischa approaches a chair slightly taller than the others, ornately carved. Meeting my gaze, he nods to one a few seats down. Warily, I approach the chair and perch myself on it.

  Not long after, Sergei and Vanya arrive. The elder brother takes a seat across from Mischa, while Vanya stands beside his leader. As the room fills to capacity, Sergei rises, drawing all eyes to him.

  Unlike Mischa, he opted for a black suit, expertly tailored to cast a subtle air of intimidation. He wouldn’t belong at a Winthorp gathering—that’s for sure.

  “I’ve called a council for one reason only,” he says, his voice booming to the farthest reaches of the room without the need for a microphone. “To put an end to this war. Mischa, while he may lead us bravely, will have us continue down a never-ending path of violence. Fortunately, I see another way to end this conflict.”

  “And how is that?” someone demands from the crowd.

  “It’s simple: We come to an arrangement with the younger Winthorp. Rumor has it that he is shrewder than his father ever was.”

  “Rumor?” Mischa scoffs. “Rumor has it that I dine on children for breakfast and bathe in their blood. Fortunately, at least one of those isn’t true.”

  Uneasy laughter rumbles from those gathered, but the tension is palpable in the air. It’s as if invisible battle lines have been drawn, apparent in the subtle body posture of those seated at the circle. Some eye Mischa intently, attuned to his every word. Others look to Sergei.

  “The point is: I believe we should end this war now,” Sergei insists.

  “But we’ve taken a vote before,” another man points out. “I doubt hearts have changed so quickly.”

  “Really?” Sergei glances at me and moves to stand in the center of the circle. “Then perhaps you’ll listen to a voice other than mine? Ellen, would you join me?”

  I swallow hard, choking a refusal down. My trembling legs barely
seem capable of supporting my weight. As all eyes turn to me, it’s a wonder I don’t melt into a puddle.

  One gaze burns more intensely than the others, however. He doesn’t take his eyes off me for a second, even as Sergei stands aside, leaving me in the center of the circle alone.

  My surroundings blur as what seems like a hundred faceless people focus on me.

  “And who is this?” someone asks.

  “She is Robert Winthorp’s wife,” Sergei says, receiving startled gasps. “I believe it is only fair that she should have a say in this conflict.”

  More murmurs rise from those gathered. “And what does she have to say?”

  “Before we begin, I’d like to make a suggestion,” Mischa cuts in. He sits casually in his chair, his arms crossed, but his eyes are fiercely alert. “As someone pointed out, we’ve already settled this matter via a vote. But as Pakhan, I’m willing to let her decision overrule any previous course of action. All opposed?”

  A smattering of people dissent, but presumably not enough to make a difference.

  “Then it’s settled,” Mischa says. He and Sergei share a searching look, but the other man makes no objection. “In fact,” Mischa continues, “I say we go a step further: We give her a seat at the table with all the authority of an acting head.”

  “Are you serious?” someone scoffs.

  “No.”

  “Out of the question!”

  “Oh?” A flicker of emotion distorts Sergei’s otherwise cold expression. Curiosity? “On what grounds would you make such a suggestion?” he wonders.

  “It’s simple.” Mischa stands, and even the novelty of my appearance is no match as he effortlessly commands the attention of the entire room. “Not only is she the daughter of Robert Winthorp Senior’s first wife, but she’s also the bastard of Ivan Vasilev.”

  Chaos. A chorus of shouting nearly drowns out Mischa’s calm, persistent baritone.

  “Not only that. But she’s the mother of Robert the younger’s sole surviving heir.”

  I can’t breathe. No matter how rapidly I suck air in, none of it seems to go into my lungs. It’s ironic in a sense: Nicolai broke my ribs. But Mischa shatters the pathetic organ trapped between them. Blood pools in my veins, stalled by an ineffective heart.