by Lana Sky
I lift my head just enough to spit out, “I’m not in the mood to be used as a fucking pawn in your goddamn war, either.”
He stands there so long that I’m sure he’ll attack. Lash out. Insult. I’d like to think I’m ready for him, but I’m not. I’m so tired of his game.
Closing my eyes, I lie here with my face buried in the sheets. I’m not sure exactly when he leaves. The only thing I’m aware of is that darkness falls gradually, confining me like a cocoon.
And that he’s gone.
Chapter 20
He doesn’t come for me in the morning—or if he does, I don’t give him the chance to. I hobble to the bathroom myself and bathe behind a locked door. For clothing, I settle on one of the items I picked out for myself what feels like an eternity ago: a dark sweater and a loose pair of jeans.
A part of me wants to stay in here forever. Hide from the monsters in my life. Pretend I have any say in doing so. Lie to myself. Is that how my mother survived her days? The more I think of her, the less clearly I can recall her memory. Not the sweet, smiling woman who tucked me into bed some nights, but a haunted shadow. Someone with more secrets than answers, and even now, I’m not sure I want to learn them all.
Eventually, the heat of the bath water fades and I have no choice but to escape into the hall, using my crutches for balance. Out here, I realize that Mischa might be the least of my worries. Something in the air is different: a sense, a feeling. It permeates the narrow hallway, seeping through my skin. Unease? Just a few paces from the bathroom, my ears catch the distant sounds of men talking. Furiously.
“What do you mean?” a man demands. Mischa. “You think they’re here? Would the bastard really be so fucking bold?”
“What is your gut telling you?” someone replies gruffly. Vanya. “Something isn’t right—”
“It’s Winthorp,” Mischa hisses. “He’s planning something. Or maybe Sergei… Fuck these goddamn games!”
“Well then what are you going to do about it?”
I hear them both move farther into the house, splintering off in different directions. Vanya’s slow, uneven gait heads away from me, while the other set…
I watch him ascend the stairs dressed in gray fatigues, his hair wild and untamed. His eyes find mine, dark with an unreadable emotion. Without a word, he cocks his head, beckoning me to follow him into a nearby room. His office.
My heart beats unsteadily, and I start to turn away.
“We need to talk.” The grit in his voice draws my attention despite everything. He’s wary about something. Me?
He’s seated behind the desk when I finally enter the room, his hands braced flat over the surface.
“You’re coming with me tonight.” He looks up, seeking out my gaze. “I’m meeting someone with information on your husband. You say you’re truly free of him? Prove it to me—”
“Why should I?” I counter, my voice soft. “Why should I believe anything you say?”
“You don’t.” He pushes back from the desk and stands. “But use your brain, Little Rose. You want information on your husband? Your mother?”
He lets the question hang in the air like a tempting piece of bait.
“Then be ready tonight.” He wants to say something else, I suspect. His lips twitch and then twist into that stubborn frown. Without another word, he leaves, retreating down the hall.
My heart clenches with an emotion I can’t name. More confusion? The man delivers it in spades, like a poison meant to affect me when all of his other attempts have failed. All I can do to survive the effects of it is…
Breathe.
I inhale raggedly between every step I take. At first, I head for my room, but something makes me pass it and turn the corner to that forgotten wing. I test the doors one by one, surprised to find most of them locked. The few that aren’t open onto dark, dusty closets that contain nothing of real interest.
Mischa guards his secrets well, it seems. Well enough that I’m exhausted by the time I return to my designated sick room—not that I can enjoy the peaceful quiet for long.
He comes at the time when Vanya would usually bring my evening meal, his steps hesitant near the threshold. With the door already opened, I can make out the sliver of his shadow outstretched over the floor. He says nothing, and I have to rise from the bed and approach him to convey my intent.
His eyes narrow, and then he turns, leading the way to the lower level. To my surprise, he takes me to the stairs, forcing me to hobble down and balance my crutches while clinging to the banister. Dripping sweat, I watch him, trying to decipher his motive. To punish me?
No. His arms twitch at his sides as if he’s stopping himself from offering assistance. Maybe because he knows I’ll rebuff his attempts—regardless, he stays close. Close enough to catch me should I fall…
His eyes, however, reveal nothing as they track my descent, and the moment I’m close enough, he marches for the door, leaving me to follow. Two of his men wait outside near an idling van. One takes the driver’s seat, while the other climbs into the farthest row at the back of the van, which leaves me and Mischa to claim the middle.
Mischa makes me get in first and snatches the crutches once I’m seated. To my alarm, he leaves them there on the driveway before climbing in himself and slamming the door after us.
“What are you doing?” I croak.
“You won’t need them.” He stares from the window on his end, his posture tense.
Alarm dances down my spine in deadly anticipation. Very few things make Mischa pensive—none of them good for me.
Are we headed toward another meeting? Another dark, sordid trade? Perhaps, even now, he still plans to sell me, a task made much easier if I don’t have full use of my legs.
The twisted scenarios form unabated in my head. My breath is baited by the time the vehicle finally slows to a stop. When I look out the window, all I feel is…
Confusion. “Where are we?” The question slips out before I can remind myself who I’m with.
We’re near a secluded building. A home maybe? It’s not as grand as Nicolai, the drug supplier’s, but it’s not small, either. It’s perhaps the size of the guest house at Winthorp Manor. In the darkness, I can make out two men standing guard on a short set of stone steps leading to a door. Orange light illuminates square windows, but I can’t make out any hint of what might lurk within.
“Get out.” Mischa shoulders the door open on his end and renders his command moot when he reaches for me. Before I can protest, I’m in his arms. “Don’t worry, Little Rose,” he grunts as he heads for the front of the building. “I’ll release you soon enough.”
The reassurance rings more like a threat as we near the two men who eye me warily before nodding in deference to Mischa.
One of them opens the door, allowing us inside. A narrow foyer decorated in shades of black and gold greets us, a much chicer interior than I would have expected. Mischa enters boldly and turns through a nearby archway, entering a wide, simple sitting room. A man dominates a leather couch in one corner of the room. I stiffen the second his eyes connect with mine.
I don’t even register grabbing Mischa’s forearm until he shrugs, testing my grip. “What—”
“He was there with Nikolaus,” I say. “The night he attacked me.”
“Pakhan,” the man greets, his tone soft. “How kind of you to join me.”
“It seems you’ve been busy, Gabriel,” Mischa replies. He sets me down on an armchair positioned slightly beyond the circle of couches. Turning his back to me, he claims a seat directly opposite the other man. At a glance, I can’t tell if he believed me or not, but then—as if he read my mind—his hand goes to the bulging pocket of his fatigues. “Care to explain yourself?”
“Can you blame me for assisting an old friend?”
“Maybe… If you have the information you promised,” Mischa counters, “I suggest you make it good.”
“Yes…” The man shifts, unfurling his long limbs. He places his
hands on either knee, and a ring on his left hand draws my eye. Thick. Silver. It looks similar to a Winthorp insignia ring, but different. Older. “You’ve been busy yourself, Mischa,” the man says. “But Robert Winthorp? Well, he’s been busier.”
“Cut to the chase, Gabriel,” Mischa scoffs, crossing his arms. Then his eyes cut in my direction before flicking away. “I’m listening.”
“He’s consolidating,” Gabriel declares. “Everything that bastard could inherit from his father, he’s already pried from the man’s cold, dead hands. The docks. The ports. All of it.”
My skin runs cold at the mention of Robert. Still alive. Still fighting back. Without his father, I can only imagine how far the depths of his greed might extend.
“I’m not worried about the Winthorps and their toys,” Mischa says.
“Ha!” Gabriel throws back his head for a guttural laugh. When he meets Mischa’s gaze again, he isn’t smiling. “You should be. With the power at his control, he could crush you in a matter of weeks. With or without the mafiya. And if he’s bold enough to come after you directly, all it would be is catching you off guard. Not to mention your little rift with Sergei…”
“A matter of weeks, you say?” Mischa strokes his chin, seemingly unconcerned—but I can see through the act. His eyes are molten, swirling with dark conspiracies.
“He’s been busy, Pakhan. Making alliances. Scurrying in your shadow. You think you have a good grip on your men. Maybe you do—but don’t doubt for a second that Winthorp isn’t in the background, sniffing around for any hint of weakness. If I could plant a man among your ranks, just imagine what he could do?”
Interest crosses Mischa’s expression. “So what do you suggest?”
Gabriel eyes me again, a slight smile shaping his lips. “Well, if you had some insight into who his allies are, that might help.”
“That’s what you’re for, if you haven’t forgotten,” Mischa says coldly. “Unless I need to find another man whose palms require grease. Preferably one who won’t scurry around with my fucking enemies—”
“Relax, Pakhan. Nikolaus was a cousin of mine, you understand.” His gaze turns distant for a brief second. Then he shakes his head. “Rumor has it that Winthorp’s moves are a bit too bold. He’s more confident than he’s ever been, but why? Or maybe it’s self-preservation. His father had several businessmen who might think they have a claim to what the old man left behind. Robert’s consolidating power quickly. They might be willing to whisper to any man who could guarantee their safety.”
“And I assume you have someone in mind?” Mischa wonders.
“That I do. I’ll pass on his information to you, but there’s more.”
“Oh?”
Gabriel nods, suddenly serious. “There are more rumors, a bit more outlandish, but I think you might want to consider them nonetheless. One is regarding Winthorp’s sister. Her wedding’s been mysteriously called off. The whereabouts of her fiancé are unknown—”
I must have made a noise, because the man breaks off, turning his attention to me.
“Some say it’s coincidence,” the man continues, “but I say that the bastard is getting rid of any threats to his power, even his own blood.”
Mischa shrugs, disinterested “What else?”
“Another rumor. This one is…more gossip than anything, but it might serve your purpose if it pans out. There is talk that Winthorp wouldn’t cut off his own sister and attack his father without securing his own bloodline. His father was a madman, you realize? Had it specified in his will the exact stipulations of any inheritance.”
I remember them. Archaic nonsense Robert used to scoff at. He could only marry someone his father approved of and produce a male heir. One of the many reasons our relationship wasn’t valid in the eyes of his father.
Briar’s wedding, in terms of succession, put her one step closer to securing the elder Winthorp’s favor.
“You know how some of those old-fashioned fucks loyal to that family are,” Gabriel sneers. “They’ve all supported him, but they wouldn’t without proof that he’s established himself as the head of the Winthorp name. Dogs need their rewards, you see.”
“Proof?” Mischa sits forward, an eyebrow raised. “What kind of proof?”
Gabriel shrugs. “The kind that would make a man bold enough to imprison his sister—allegedly—and kill his father. There’s talk that he had a pet he kept close.” Once again, his dark eyes dart in my direction.
This time, Mischa copies him and my heart stalls at the intensity of his gaze.
“And?” my tormentor prompts.
Gabriel’s lips quirk into yet another quick smile. “And there’s talk that he may have cemented his bloodline, if you know what I mean.”
I stop listening. My stomach churns ominously, even though I know it’s a lie. I know. But the knowledge swirls in my blood like poison, making it harder and harder to breathe…
“I need fresh air.”
Both men turn in my direction as I rise from my chair, using the arms for balance.
“Wait.” Mischa advances on my position before I can even make it to my feet. Within seconds, I’m in his arms, being carried from the room. “We’ll continue this later,” he calls to Gabriel.
The other man merely laughs. “Of course.”
Tension radiates from Mischa, seeping through my skin as we enter the cold night air. He all but shoves me into the van, climbing in after me.
“Drive,” he snaps to the driver. “And get Vanya on the phone as soon as you can. The fucker’s up to something. I can sense it. And you…” His eyes cut to me. Before he even opens his mouth, I beat him to the punch.
“It’s not what you’re thinking.” Even now, I can’t even force myself to say it out loud—the scenario that I know is on his mind. “It’s not.”
“Oh?” He laughs. “And I’m supposed to believe that because you fucking say so?”
“Yes.” The simplicity of my answer makes him grunt in shock. “I wouldn’t lie about this—”
“About what?” Mischa demands as his man dutifully puts the van into motion. “About your fucking spawn with Winthorp? Let me guess. Now is the time you beg me to spare them both—”
“There is no child.” My fingers fly to my lips, suppressing the confession. It’s not the whole truth. Inhaling raggedly, I try again. “They… He died.”
Mischa says nothing, even as my body deflates with the admission. Hunched over, I focus my attention on breathing. In and out. Ironically, he’s the one who taught me this mantra—how to survive when it feels like the world is caving in and nothing could possibly slow the onslaught.
So I breathe.
When I finally let myself refocus on my surroundings, the van has stopped. Muted noises echo as if I’m hearing them from underwater. Shouting. Mischa. We aren’t near his manor, I realize, but parked along a country road. Shadows obscure any defining features and I can’t even begin to guess our location.
Mischa stands outside the van, with the door on his end wide open. Carried by a harsh wind, his voice drifts to me, tense and low.
“What the fuck do you mean?” Suddenly, he breaks off, his eyes wide. “Shit!” The next second, he’s lunging into the van, shouting in the driver’s ear. “Drive! Fucking drive!”
The van explodes into motion, kicking up mud as it peels down the road. Soon enough, Mischa’s manor appears on the horizon like a smudge of brown over an inky sky. A smudge is quickly enhanced by strokes of orange and yellow.
“No! Fuck, no!” Mischa slams his fist into the back of the seat before him as the driver swerves off the road, cutting through a field to reach the house sooner. Yards away, Mischa flings the door open and jumps out with the driver hot on his heels. “Safehouse,” Mischa shouts.
Gritting his teeth, the driver turns back to the road, and the sudden increase in speed jolts me forward—but he’s not fast enough. A dark shadow swerves from a curve in the road up ahead. A quickly approaching van—but it’s no
t one of Mischa’s.
I only have a second to make out the blurred faces beyond the tinted glass before everything explodes into noise. I’m spinning. Falling…
Crashing.
Pain licks lazily at my throbbing limbs as I feel out with my hands, desperate to get my bearings. It’s dark, barring a faint glow of moonlight that illuminates nothing in particular. But I can get my bearings, at least. I’m lying on my side, caught between the front and middle seats of the van.
“Hello?” I call out, but the driver doesn’t answer. Groaning, I manage to climb to my knees only to find the man slumped over the steering wheel. I don’t think he’s breathing.
And then I hear them: footsteps crunching over grass and dirt, racing toward me.
The van must have stalled rather than crashed. It’s still upright, and someone grunts as they wrench the door open. Blinking, I struggle to take them in. A pressed suit and gleaming headset affixed to his ear confirm the worst: He’s not Mischa’s.
Frowning, the man observes me. “It’s her,” he grunts into his headset. “I’ve found her. She’s alive.” He tucks his gun into the pocket of his coat and extends his hand. “Come with me, miss. You’re safe.”
Safe. Safe. Safe. That word echoes hauntingly as my ears ring and broken glass crunches under my fingertips, a painful reminder. This man will take me to Robert.
“We need to hurry!” The man stoops to my level and reaches for my arm.
Robotically, I reach out in return, letting him guide me to the door.
A hiss escapes him as he observes my legs. “She’s injured,” he barks into his headset. “Our location is—”
“Help me up!” I command over him.
He frowns but assists me to my feet. In the distance, Mischa’s home glows, engulfed in flames, and shock renders me speechless. All those secrets I’ll never uncover. The memories Mischa obviously holds dear. And the people…
Vanya. The little girl.
Mischa.
“We need to move, miss.” The man beside me loops an arm around my shoulders, steering me toward the sleek, black vehicle idling paces away. He must have driven it himself. There’s no one else inside as he sets me on the passenger’s seat.
