“I think you should call someone,” I said desperately. “Have them drive you to the emergency room, get your chest looked at.”
She shook her head. “My daughter’s away on some training course.” She leaned forward conspiratorially and the pride in her voice made my chest hurt. “She’s in the FBI.”
“Hailey,” said Calahan in my ear, “I’m going to go over there right now and tell her I work with you and that you asked me to look in on her. I’ll drive her to the emergency room, okay?”
It was the hardest thing I’d ever done. “If you’re sure you’re okay….” I ground out.
My mom nodded quickly and waved me towards the door, still wheezing. All I wanted to do was run up to her and give her a hug….
I forced myself to turn around and walk out. Just as the door closed, I heard her start coughing again. I climbed back into the car, tears in my eyes.
I carried on as normal. I went back to the mansion, I picked out some lingerie, and I went down to the dungeon to meet Konstantin. But just as I started to shrug off my robe, he suddenly clapped a hand down on my shoulder, stopping the fabric from falling. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
But there was nothing I could say. I shook my head.
He frowned, stepping closer, and I saw that protective gleam in his eye. “Christina?”
But I just looked at the floor.
He started to speak again...and then shook his head. Remembering that we didn’t have that sort of relationship. But maybe—just like me—wishing we did.
* * *
That night, Calahan told me that he’d taken my mom to the ER and that it was just a chest infection. They’d started her on some meds and she was sounding much better. And she now had more than enough money to pay her medical bills. But I still lay awake all night worrying about her, and feeling like the worst daughter in the world.
The next morning, at breakfast, I slumped exhausted into my seat. The chef beamed at me—like the rest of the staff, he seemed to be getting less scared of me. “Your usual, Miss Rogan?” He was already turning away to go and prepare it.
I opened my mouth to say yes, please but...I just couldn’t face another glass of that gloopy gray-green sludge. “Actually...maybe something different, today?”
The chef’s head whipped round. Konstantin looked up.
“Maybe...waffles?” I asked hopefully.
The chef straightened up, his chest rounding in pride. “May I suggest....with some fresh blueberries and raspberries, some whipped cream and a jug of maple syrup?”
“...and maybe a large cup of coffee?” I said. “That would be wonderful, thank you!”
When the chef returned and laid the plate in front of me, his grin told me exactly how much he’d hated preparing that smoothie every morning. And the waffles were amazing, crispy on the outside, and buttery-soft inside, and drenched in maple syrup.
“It’s good to see you eating proper food,” muttered Konstantin.
I smiled at him.
“It’s good to see you smile again, too.”
I froze, the fork halfway to my mouth. I couldn’t believe he’d said something so sweet.
He looked away, as if he was going to pretend he hadn’t said it. Then he looked back at me with such a fierce, smoldering glare, such a, yes, I did damn well say it look, that I just melted in my seat.
And then the chef brought my coffee and when I looked at Konstantin again, he was back behind his newspaper. But even so, just that brief glimpse of the man I knew was in there, felt amazing.
The good feeling lasted all day. Right up until we got the phone call.
36
Konstantin
I SHOULD have seen it coming.
Maybe having Christina back had distracted me. Maybe it was the dreams disturbing my sleep—they still hadn’t gone away. But that night, when I got the call to say there’d been more fires, not in restaurants and bars, this time, but in people’s homes, I grabbed Christina and raced over there to help. I never considered that I might be taking her into danger.
A few years before, I’d bought up some slum areas just before the city announced a big redevelopment scheme that made them triple in value. A typical backroom deal, for me: my contact in the planning office got a bag of cash and I made about eighty million. But when the redevelopment was done, there were still a lot of people living in crumbling tower blocks, trying to raise kids in a place with syringes on the landings and urine on the stairs. The mayor shrugged: those people weren’t likely to vote for him, so why spend money on them? I wasn’t happy about that. No one deserves to live like an animal.
So I used my own money and built new, safe apartment buildings for them, with a playground for the kids, and I had my people make sure no dealers came near it. It turned into a nice neighborhood.
And now someone had tried to burn it down.
When we arrived, the streets were slick with water from the firefighters’ hoses, and they reflected so many roaring tongues of flame, it looked as if the streets themselves were on fire. My heart sank. Four different buildings were ablaze and it wasn’t just a few apartments: flames poured from entire floors.
I checked in with the firefighters. No one was hurt: I’d insisted on the best fire alarms and everyone had gotten out in time. But the arsonists had spread gasoline up and down the hallways to ensure the fire spread fast: we’d likely lose all four buildings. Hundreds of people lined the street, shivering in their nightclothes as they watched their homes burn. Cinders started to drift down out of the sky: little fragments of what were once wedding photos and favorite toys.
I sent guards to organize hotels for them and then walked through the crowd, checking what people needed and reassuring them it was going to be okay. I turned to check Christina was alright and—
Before the accident, she’d always been sort of reserved, when it came to meeting the people who lived on my streets. I used to gloss over it and tell myself she was just shy, but she never seemed shy when she was at some party surrounded by celebrities.
Now... I watched as she helped to distribute blankets and organize hot food. The old Christina had thought she was above these people. This new one was... humble. How? How has she changed so much?
I was still thinking on it when the squeal of tires split the night. People scattered as three huge black SUVs roared up the street and skidded to a stop right next to me.
I knew who it was.
People think that bonds are formed of love but they can be formed of hate just as easily. You can’t do what he did without creating something permanent, something that’ll link us like a thread, across miles or continents, until one of us kills the other. I could feel him in that car, the raw evil of him throbbing out of it in waves, shaking loose the memories I work so hard to lock away inside me. And the memories unleashed the pain, jagged and violent, clawing its way up into my chest. By the time he finally stepped from the car, I was standing there with fists bunched and my breath shaking, fighting for control.
“Hello, Konstantin,” said Dmitri Ralavich.
I took a step forward without consciously willing it. The blood was roaring in my ears. I wanted—needed—to kill him and I needed to do it myself, to punch and crush and gouge until there was nothing left.
Eight men leveled guns at me. I froze. While I’d been focused on Ralavich, the other two SUVs full of his guards had emptied. I’d sent most of my guards off to help the victims of the fire and only three were close by. We were completely outnumbered.
This whole thing had been an ambush.
And the talk about Ralavich bringing lots of his men to New York was true. Why? Why bring an army here when he has no hope of winning?
Then a sudden, unexpected stab of fear cut through me. Christina! Where is Christina? I spun around and found her a few steps away, staring at Ralavich, her face pale.
Ralavich is an ugly man, in every sense. He’s strong, but he’s too fond of beer and gorging himself on platters of meat and
cheese. His gut stretches out his shirt and the waistband of his suit pants and this thick, nicotine-stained fingers look like pale, uncooked sausages. But it’s his face that sticks in everyone’s mind.
He hadn’t been a handsome man even before Luka Malakov caught him running one of his “rape clubs” in Moscow. Luka had beaten him so badly the surgeons couldn’t fix it, and he’d healed with one side of his face sickeningly misshapen. No woman would willingly be close to him. But then—my stomach twisted in disgust—Ralavich never liked them to be willing.
Even as I had that last thought, I knew something was different. I was facing off against Ralavich like I’d done a hundred times before, the two of us glaring at each other, both refusing to move an inch. But even the soul-deep hatred for him was being overshadowed by something. Christina. I didn’t want Ralavich anywhere near her.
And so, even though I knew it looked weak, I took a step back. And then another. And then I could put myself protectively between Ralavich and Christina, and I felt immediately better.
Ralavich threw back his head and laughed. “The rumors were true, Konstantin. Your American’s made you soft.”
I looked at the burning buildings. “Why did you do this?”
“To send you a message. Change is coming.” He raised his voice for the benefit of the crowd and I realized this was an ambush on another level, too. He was making me look weak, saying to the people, Look! I’m the one who burned your homes and your protector stands here and does nothing!
One of my guards glanced at me. A few more of them had returned and it was five of them now versus eight of Ralavich’s men. Mine were better trained and more loyal. We could probably take them, kill Ralavich once and for all. God knows he deserved it. But—
Ralavich grinned. “What’s the matter, Konstantin?”
The whole street was lined with people. There were children there. If bullets started flying it would be a bloodbath. I gave my guards a tight shake of my head.
“That’s why you’ll lose,” Ralavich told me. “Your fucking morals.”
“Go back to St. Petersburg,” I snapped. “New York is mine.”
“You’ve done a good job preparing it for me.” Ralavich grinned. “Now I’ll take it from you. I’ll finish what my father started. Soon, the Gulyev name will be a memory.” He shuffled closer and peered around me to leer at Christina. “And when you’re gone, I might just try my cock in your American and see how loud I can make her scream.”
The rage burned through me, lit by his words, fueled by twenty years of hate. But then, as Ralavich came closer still, something else happened. I realized—
He’s close enough.
Fuck, he’s actually close enough.
In his arrogance, Ralavich had swaggered within grabbing range: I could break his neck before his men could stop me. It was the best chance I’d ever had, probably the best chance I’d ever have. Every muscle went tense, ready to spring. They’d kill me, but I wasn’t afraid to die, not as long as I took him with me.
And then, at the last second, I stopped.
Christina was right there. If I killed Ralavich, his men would be sure to kill her—or worse—in revenge.
He was so close. The best chance I’ve had in twenty years….
No. I couldn’t let them hurt Christina.
So I stood there, trembling, fighting to control myself, and watched my one chance for vengeance melt away. It felt like someone was slowly pulling my heart out of my chest.
Ralavich walked right up to me and grinned in victory. Then he climbed back into his SUV, gave me a mocking wave through the window, and they drove away.
I stood there panting. The loss was physicaI. I couldn’t believe what I’d done. And yet I knew I’d do the exact same thing again, if I had the choice.
My mind was whirling. I should have been worried about how Ralavich had humiliated me, how he’d made it look as if I couldn’t protect my people. I should have been trying to figure out his plan: it made no sense, he couldn’t hope to defeat the empire I’d built in New York. And why not just shoot me when he’d had the chance? But I didn’t think about any of those things.
I just turned, grabbed hold of Christina and pulled her close. My hands slid from her hips all the way up her sides until I held her cheeks. Then, without words, I leaned down and kissed her. Exactly the sort of kiss I never allow myself. The smell of smoke and the heat of the flames and the chill of the night all dropped away and she was all that mattered, soft and feminine and good.
She’d cost me everything I’d been dreaming of for two decades. And she was worth it. Being with her gave me an electric thrill I didn’t understand. Deeper than just lust. Like I was a teenager again.
We surfaced for air. Christina looked down the street towards Ralavich’s departing convoy. “What did all that mean? Why is he here?”
I scowled at Ralavich’s tail lights as they faded into the distance. And I said something I’d never say in front of my men. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “But now that he is...from now on, you don’t go anywhere on your own.”
37
Hailey
THE NEXT DAY was the 15th October: the day Konstantin had agreed to deliver the “tool” for whatever criminal job he’d hired the guy at the mall to do. I watched him closely all day, but he never left his study.
Meanwhile, the staff were scurrying around getting the mansion ready for a party. Konstantin was known for his parties and anyone who was anyone in New York wanted an invite: models, business moguls, even politicians. Konstantin didn’t care about socializing, of course. For him, the parties were a chance to do deals in a quiet corner, or in the poker room, without having to worry about the FBI watching.
This party was different, though. This was Konstantin’s annual ball. The men would be in dinner jackets, the women would be in big, elaborate dresses and there’d be formal dances. It all sounded amazing, and very traditional and Russian, the sort of thing where some young Tsarina would meet her future husband. What I couldn’t work out was why Konstantin was doing it. A normal party would have worked just as well as a way to do deals. And that’s all Konstantin cared about...right?
Whatever the explanation, the preparations left me at a loose end. I’d started to hang out in the staff areas during the day, chatting to the cooks and maids while I lent a hand folding sheets or setting the table. Today, though, there was no time for chat. Everyone was rushing back and forth with trays of food, boxes of glasses and stacks of chairs, and a team of four men were maneuvering an ice sculpture through the middle of it all. I was just in the way so I made myself scarce.
I didn’t give much thought to actually going to the ball, or what to wear. I usually have to be dragged to parties and then spend the evening in the corner looking at my feet. But, a few hours before it was due to start, Konstantin marched into the bedroom carrying a box so big, he had to turn sideways to get through the door. He set it down on the bed and then gestured towards me.
I stared at him, startled. For me?!
He nodded.
I approached the box. It was cream and the cardboard was as solid and stiff as wood. There was a name embossed in gold in the center: Beringham and Chase, done in that particular, curly font that suggested Beringham and Chase were British, old-fashioned, and quite possibly on good terms with the Queen. I hinged open the top….
That was the moment I first saw the dress. Just the bodice and a lot of folded skirt, at first, but that was enough to clue me in to what it was and I gave a kind of squeak of disbelief.
It was exactly what a princess would wear in some animated fairytale. It was made of thick, glossy satin the pale blue of the sky on a perfect spring day. There was a tight bodice with a square neckline, short sleeves and a big skirt. Everything was done with ribbons and buttons: I couldn’t see anything as modern as a zipper anywhere.
I lifted it gently up from the box, surprised by how heavy it was. That’s when the skirt unfolded...and then unfolded again.
I’d completely underestimated it. It was a full-on, bell-shaped, floor-length extravaganza. It had only fit in the box because all the frilly stuff that filled out the skirt was missing—that must be somewhere else.
I looked at it in awe. “I can’t wear this. I mean, it’s lovely but….” I turned to him to explain that this was a dress for a princess, and I wasn’t—
But the words died in my throat. Those gray eyes were smoldering down at me and telling me, very firmly, that I was. And that he’d damn well dress me appropriately.
I flushed and nodded, my heart suddenly pounding.
“I’ll send in Victoria,” he told me, and left.
Victoria? Why would I want my maid in here? But within thirty seconds of picking up the dress, I saw why. The back was a confusing mass of buttons, none of which seemed to line up with each other, and I had no idea what to wear underneath or how the skirts worked. When Victoria knocked on the door, I let out a sigh of relief.
I let her take charge and just did what she told me. First of all, she showed me what I should be wearing underneath: a silky, cream-colored corset with an embroidered pattern of silver roses winding around it and real metal ribs. It wrapped around my waist and then curved up just barely high enough to cover my nipples. I looked like a sexy princess, or an old-fashioned superheroine.
Then Victoria pulled on the laces. Hard. All the air hissed out of me as the thing cinched tight. “What are you doing?!” I croaked.
“Corseting you,” she said, as if this was the most normal thing in the world. Then she tugged again and I had to grab hold of the end of the bed so that I didn’t stagger backwards. I could feel my waist shrinking each time she heaved on the laces. My eyes bulged. “Okay,” I managed. “I think that’s enough.”
“Yep,” she agreed. But then pulled the laces tighter and I realized she was just humoring me. “Just about done.” Tighter. “Really not much more—” Tighter “—to go.” She was having to grunt with effort, now and I wondered if this was revenge for all the times Christina had been cruel to her. “You’re really—unh! Just—nngg—about...there!” She gave a last, sudden jerk and then tied them and stepped back. “How’s that?”
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