by Lana Sky
Letting me go, he stands and grabs his pants from the floor. “But, now, I need to ask you something. Sergei put that suspicion into your head. Didn’t he?”
I briefly consider denying it—whatever is brewing between the two men, something warns me that it isn’t good. In the end, I nod. “He said you might have ‘plans’ for him.”
Mischa scoffs. “I might have plans… Do you trust him?”
The hostility in his tone stings. “I-I don’t know—”
“I don’t.” He pulls his shirt on and starts to pace, speaking to me from over his shoulder. “The night you were taken—from right under his fucking nose, I might add—he put on a grand show, Sergei. But something was off.”
I sit straighter, bracing my feet on the floor. “What do you mean?”
He could be giving in to paranoia, but I can’t ignore my own suspicions. As much as I try to deny it, our escape was too damn easy.
“I know the man,” Mischa says, frowning as he dissects his thoughts. “I know when he’s worried. I know when he’s afraid. But that night, he wasn’t.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying: Watch the man for yourself. Listen to everything he says, and use that smart brain of yours, Rose.” He taps his finger on his forehead for emphasis. “I’d say I’m not a very complicated man. I plan directly and go for the jugular. But Sergei plays mind games. I warned you once and I will warn you again: He was the most effective and ruthless leader the mafiya had. Don’t forget that. Now, get dressed.” He tosses something to me that I barely manage to catch: my plain dress. “I want to show you something.”
Chapter 22
Whatever he aims to show me requires intruding on the small sitting room where Anna is cuddling with Eli. He’s nestled on her lap while she hums a song and runs her fingers through his hair. Spotting us, she stiffens.
“I can go,” I blurt, but she shakes her head.
“No.” She stands and gingerly sets the boy on the floor. “Mischa.” Her voice breaks, but she swallows and tries again. “I’d like to go for a walk, please.”
“Of course.” Mischa extends his hand to her and guides her to the doorway.
Looking back at Eli, Anna forces a pained smile. “You stay here, my darling. I’ll be just a moment, all right?”
Eli shrugs, wringing his fingers.
As they leave, I sit on the chair beside him. “My name is Ellen,” I say. Of all the ways to begin this conversation, it’s the only one to come to mind.
I wonder if Robert ever told him as much.
To my surprise, he nods solemnly and digs something from beneath the collar of his crisp blue shirt. His locket. Mischa must have returned it to him. With his tiny fingers, he pries it open and holds it up for my inspection.
I barely recognize the woman staring blankly from a small color photo. Angel, he called her? More like a ghost. Her blue eyes are lifeless, her face unblemished. I can’t even recall a time such a picture could have been taken—it’s as if my entire life before now has been a blur. Snippets of clarity in the midst of a nightmare.
But him…
I never forgot him, no matter how hard I tried.
Gingerly, I brush my finger along his cheek. It’s plump, sporting twin dimples and a ruddy redness. The boyish attributes soften the reality of his slender neck and elegant nose—Winthorp features.
Even now, a part of me half expects him to fade beneath my fingertips—this is all some cruel fantasy.
But he doesn’t.
Beaming, he points to a pile of objects strewn over the floor instead. Someone found him makeshift toys: a spoon, a small ball, and a porcelain figurine far too delicate to have been intended for use by a child.
“Watch,” he commands. Flopping onto his stomach, he smashes the spoon against the ball.
And I observe him for what feels like an eternity, my eyes watering.
Robert kept me caged for years, and despite Mischa’s insistence to the contrary, I don’t think I hate him for it. I can’t.
Because as cruel as he was, I let him use, and control, and manipulate me. I made myself numb to every bit of abuse and fed myself the lie that survival was worth it.
But this? My throat aches as I picture what life could have been like just for a second if I had Eli. I would have looked upon his innocent face and maybe I would have seen through the bars of my narrow cage for the first time. I would have known that no future was worth suffering an existence where he would see his father as a monster and his mother as a victim.
Holding Eli back then, I would have woken up from the dazed, nightmarish life Robert had accustomed me to.
And he knew it. Just like Mischa manipulates his own pawns across this ruthless gameboard, Robert maneuvered me and his own son as well. All in the name of leverage, and power, and winning.
But this is one game I can’t excuse him for playing.
And this crime deserves more than death as a punishment.
Anna and Mischa return far too soon, with Mouse in tow. Eli jumps to his feet when he spots the younger girl, and the two promptly dash into the hallway, playing a makeshift game of chase.
“Outside,” Mischa bellows and the children heed his command with him grumbling in their wake.
“Shall we make sure no one loses an eye?” Anna asks. For once, her small smile seems genuine.
Together, we enter the gardens and find the children darting between the trees while Mischa stands guard nearby. From here, his stern shouts are easily discernible.
“You have five minutes to hide. After that…I will be taking prisoners.”
My heart swells while I watch him. Even if I still have doubts about his plans for me or Eli, I know one thing more than anything else: He’ll make a good father.
If this war doesn’t consume him first.
So lost in thought, I barely hear Anna say, “It feels so strange to be out in the fresh air again.”
I turn and find the wind whipping her hair behind her as if in emphasis.
“Visiting the gardens once every few days was a rare treat,” she says.
My heart pangs. I recognize the wistful note in her voice. Once upon a time, I might have said the same thing.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “If I had known…”
I’m not sure what I could have done. Warned Mischa at least. He could have rescued her sooner.
“Don’t,” she says softly. “In a selfish way, I almost wish I had more time with…” She shakes her head and clears her throat. “Mischa told me what Robert told you. That Eli—Robert—was dead. And as horrible as it sounds, I almost wish you had abandoned him. I would feel less guilty.”
“You shouldn’t. He’s beautiful. And Eli is a wonderful name.” Watching him, I’m struck by a sudden realization. Perhaps this is what Mischa wanted to show me: a young boy with wild, blond hair traipsing boldly through the edge of the forest.
There is no mistaking the hints of Robert Winthorp peeking from his features. His nose. His mouth. The calculating way he eyes his target—Mouse—before pouncing on her without warning. But he’s quicker to laugh, and his impish grin reflects no ounce of malice.
Robert Winthorp may be his father, but he is his own person.
And I have hope that he will be different.
For better or for worse.
Chapter 23
Mischa runs the children ragged until they barely have the strength to make it to the upstairs sitting room before collapsing into respective corners.
“I’ll get them some water,” Anna suggests. Smiling, she hustles toward the stairs.
Funnily enough, even Mischa looks winded. He pants while meeting my gaze and rakes the sweat-soaked hair from his face. “What are you thinking behind those judging little eyes, Rose?”
I turn away, spotting Eli curled on his side, deeply asleep. Across from him, poor Mouse is struggling to keep her eyes open. The dirt and mud streaking their faces are clues as to the kind of “games” they were p
laying.
“I’m thinking that you have a very strange idea of playtime.”
Knife fighting, war drills, and escape lessons.
“And what should we be doing instead?” Mischa asks, crossing his arms. “Playing with dollies and tea parties?”
“Maybe.”
He frowns. “Maybe it’s you that has a strange idea of playtime.”
“If all you teach them is violence and war, then all you can see in their future is violence and war,” I explain, gesturing toward Mouse. She’s fully asleep now, huddled against the wall, but her posture remains tense. Guarded. As if she expects an attack at any moment. “And maybe it’s naïve, and foolish, and stupid, but…”
“What?” he prods when I fall silent. I look over, surprised by the stern tilt to his jaw. He’s curious.
“I think it’s braver to imagine a future for them in which their only fear is pouring the tea wrong or wearing an outdated dress to dinner. Is that so wrong?”
Maybe it is—shallow in a sense.
But while I always resented Briar’s vain upbringing, there was a comfort in it that I envied more than anything.
She never had to evade her father’s men or jump on the first offer of security thrown her way. She never saw safety as a commodity worth trading her soul for.
“I don’t want to fear for them.” I brush my hand along my stomach before I can help it. “I’d rather hope for them.”
“And what does hope lie in?” he counters, though I don’t think he’s mocking me. His tone is way too soft. “Piano lessons and etiquette classes?”
I shrug. “Maybe. Or in someplace where they can feel safe. A home. One they don’t have to worry might be invaded—”
“Rose.” His posture shifts and he becomes the imposing soldier once more.
I turn to the doorway and see why. Sergei stands there, flanked by Vanya.
“Sorry to interrupt,” the older man says. Dressed in black, he radiates an authority even Mischa reacts to by gritting his teeth. “But something has come up that may draw your interest.”
“What is it?” Mischa demands.
“Since Ellen decided our course of action, I think I may have the perfect opportunity in mind for you to fulfill it.”
Mischa stiffens. “Fine. But then she can hear the details as well.” He gestures toward me with a wave of his hand.
“Of course.” Sergei extends his arm in a silent invitation to follow. “I don’t object.”
“I’ll stay here,” Anna suggests, appearing beside her father. Her eyes go to Eli and she smiles. “If I can wake them up, I’ll send the children off to bed.”
“Fine.” Mischa shoulders past me and enters the hall. “Let’s hear it, then.”
“As you wish.” Sergei pulls ahead and descends the stairs. Leading the way, he approaches the larger drawing room off the foyer.
Mischa and Vanya form a guarded audience along the wall while Sergei stands in the middle.
“After the unceremonious death of his father, Robert Winthorp has had to shore up support among the old man’s allies,” Sergei says. “Some of them, admittedly, are wary about an untested upstart. I know for a fact that Robert is on his way to one of those men as we speak. Unfortunately for him, I have my men staked along the route as well.”
“So an ambush,” Mischa surmises, stroking his chin. Raw hunger for revenge sinks into the line of his mouth, tilting it at the corner. His eyes, however, remain mistrustful. “And what is your plan?”
“Simple,” Sergei replies. “I’ll provide support. You and your men can have your prize. I won’t interfere.”
“Oh?” A tense few seconds pass as Mischa rattles off various logistics at a rapid-fire pace.
When.
Where.
How.
Sergei has an answer for every one.
Finally, Mischa sighs and drags his fingers through his hair, raking the strands back from his face. “So when do we go?”
“Now.”
As if on cue, a man appears in the doorway. Though he isn’t wearing the crisp, black ensemble most of Sergei’s men do, I don’t recognize him as Mischa’s, either. Plain jeans and a short-sleeved tee-shirt set him apart, as do a few scattered tattoos down the length of his arms. One in particular draws my interest: a serpent coiled around a cross.
“This is one of my best scouts,” Sergei says, drawing my attention back to him. “He will be your liaison as we bring up the rear.”
“You won’t be with us?” Vanya asks.
“I think it’s for the best if Mischa takes the lead in this instance,” Sergei replies, eyeing the younger man thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t want to interfere.”
“But shouldn’t we call another council? Discuss this with the other heads? Request support—”
“You worry too much, Ivan,” Sergei interjects.
“Does he though?” Mischa cocks his head as if a sudden thought occurred to him. “It isn’t like you to be rash, Sergei.”
“Rash?” The man strokes his chin. “Or prudent? After all, the best way to catch your enemy is off guard. However, I will concede to convening with the heads. It’s unusual to meet so soon after a council—”
“But we’ll make an exception,” Mischa says. His eyes cut in my direction, impossible to read. “Little Rose should learn the true ways of the mafiya.”
“Infernal politics,” Vanya grumbles.
“Though necessary,” Sergei says. “What say you, Mischa?”
“Fine. I’ll arrange a banquet.” He puts a mocking twist on the term. “For tomorrow night. From there, we can discuss our next course of action.”
Both brothers nod in unison. “Agreed.”
“Good.” Mischa pulls away from the wall, but on his way out, he grabs my arm, dragging me after him.
In silence, he leads me past the staircase and into another room. One that, I assume, was chosen at random. It’s spacious, but instead of portraits on the walls, this one sports weapons locked behind glass. Knives. Guns.
It’s like being inside Mischa’s brain.
“So what do you think?” the man in question murmurs against my ear. “Should we trust the charming Sergei Vasilev?”
He grunts when I don’t give him an answer—but I’m still stuck on his use of that dangerous term. We.
“Tell me, Rose—”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But you don’t.”
His mouth tightens as if his first instinct is to deny it. Then he shrugs. “You saw something. When Sergei’s muscle came in. Your face changed.”
“What?” I recall the unfamiliar man, picturing him clearly in my head. “I don’t…”
“What?” he demands as I feel my face pale. “What is it?”
“I think…” My blood runs cold as I picture his tattoo. A serpent and cross. I’ve seen it before just once. My eyes widen as I meet Mischa’s intent stare. “I think he’s the man I saw outside of the hotel. When Anna and I escaped.”
“What?” Mischa’s eyebrows furrow. “No, it’s…”
“Insane,” I agree, my voice hoarse. “I must have seen it wrong.”
“No.” He sighs, gritting his teeth. “It’s fucking devious and calculating. No wonder the bastard wasn’t worried.”
He apparently had a man on the inside.
“Do you think he’s working with Robert?” Even as I voice such a suggestion, it sounds too fantastical to consider.
“I don’t know,” Mischa admits. “What was that spiel of yours about hope again? Maybe the raw, honest truth is that there is no such thing. You can delude yourself into thinking as much in a moment of weakness.” He drags a finger along my cheek. “But then you find a knife in your back.”
“Are you trying to warn me?” I ask, though I’m honestly not sure if I’m brave enough to hear the answer.
“Maybe,” he admits. His breath ghosts my lips and I realize just how close he is: towering above me with a hairsbreadth between us. “Or maybe you’ve already re
alized that.” He nods to my abdomen and the hand I have protectively braced there. “Either way… It’s time for you to play some games my way.”
“Like how?”
His nod beckons for me to follow as he crosses to the other end of the room. Two leather chairs are positioned at opposite corners. Mischa claims one for himself, leaving the other for me.
“Sit,” he commands while he does the same, letting his bulk strain the confines of the leather.
The casualness is all for show, I suspect. When I meet his gaze, it’s honed like a razor, deadly serious.
“So what will we play?” I force myself to ask.
“A history lesson.” He props his elbow on his knee and then perches his chin atop the same hand. “The most dangerous game of all. Navigating a room of murderers and cutthroats—while gaining something from it at the same time. Let’s say that Sergei is a snake, and that he’s planning something…” He clenches his jaw, and his knuckles are white over the armrest from gripping it so tightly. “Then the only way to beat him is to anticipate him. Outmaneuver him. Outsmart him. Do you think you have what it takes?”
I eye him from head to toe, unnerved by what I find now. An unguarded Mischa offering up more secrets.
Forget the knife. This is the most dangerous weapon in his arsenal.
Trust.
“Do I? I don’t know,” I admit, supplying an answer before he can. “But I can learn. So teach me.”
“Good.” He smiles and a part of me squirms in anticipation. How strange it feels to finally be included in one of his schemes. “First, a bit of advice. Men like Sergei are patient. They can get inside your head and outwit any plan before you even come up with it. How do you defeat a man like that?”
“How?” In a way, dealing with him has given me the answer. I don’t think Mischa realizes how similar he is to his old mentor. And the few times I’ve ever fought back against him have been born from the same place. “You can’t plan,” I say, frowning.
Mischa raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t interject even though I’ve just contradicted his entire argument. “Oh? How, then.”
