Page 53 of Mistaken
Ella…
It’s not like I didn’t know that Maksim Morozov was filthy rich. But it takes walking into a mansion like this to realize he was shamelessly, wantonly, disgustingly filthy rich. These rooms… this house. I was so overwhelmed by all the opulence in the suite that I pulled a chair over to curl up by one of the enormous windows and watch the white lights that seemed to outline every building slowly turn on in the twilight. The days were very short, this far north. But the city seemed to push back against the early night. There was so much to look at, I didn’t think I could possibly sleep.
“Wake up,????????…”
I’m in the giant bed, and the fireplace is blazing, turning the room golden. Maksim is leaning over me, one hand next to my waist, the other braced on the headboard. His unreasonably handsome face is close to mine, close enough to see the gold flecks in the blue of his eyes. Why does he have to be so good-looking? Why does he have to be so warm? Why can’t I just stop noticing these things?
“I’m up,” I mumble, trying to scoot away so I can sit against the headboard. “Um… did you sleep?”
He shrugged. “I don’t need much sleep.”
He was lying, he looked exhausted, I doubted he’d slept more than the few hours of rest he caught on the jet since the shootout. Maksim may be a heartless dick, but he takes his responsibility for the men in his organization very seriously.
“I can’t imagine how hard this is for you,” I ventured, “I can see how important your people are to you.”
He looked up, as if surprised that I would say anything.Crap,I thought,was that bad? Was I not allowed to talk about it?
“When I find the people responsible,” he said casually, “their suffering will go on for days. Well beyond when they’re begging for death.”
Was that supposed to be comforting?I thought,Or a little jump into the sociopathic thought process of the Morozov Pakhan?I nodded. There was nothing to say.
Maksim took me out into the St. Petersburg winter night and it was… magical. So perfect that I could forgive him for the last maybe… seventy-two hours or so. Every house and building were lined with white lights, which were also draped across the streets, creating an unbroken line that beckoned us down along the river, watching the impromptu hockey games, and vendors alongside selling hot drinks and sweets.
If it had been anyone else, I would have taken their hand, maybe swinging our linked hands as we walked. Not Maksim, who looked spectacular in his black cashmere coat. I was bundled in something nearly identical, but my coat was bright red, with silk-lined black leather gloves. People turned to look at us, but I suspect it was not due to my possible hotness but first to the fact that we were circled by black-suited men - Maksim really had a thing about suits on his employees - and also, because he was gorgeous. I could admit this, even when hating him.
But now? He walked with his hand on the small of my back, occasionally circling my waist to help me over an icy spot. It was warming up the shriveled, coal-black lump in my chest.
“Ella, darling!Dobro pozhalovat' v Rossiyu!”Lucya Turgenev kissed me on both cheeks and we joined them at their table at Terrassa, on the restaurant's rooftop with views spanning St. Petersburg. Alexi was shaking Maksim’s hand with a rare smile on both faces.
“Spasibo,Lucya,” I said shyly. I would die rather than admit to Maksim that I’d been studying Russian every spare second where I could be alone and no one could hear my painfully awkward pronunciation. “The view here, this is just spectacular.”
“You will love the food here at Terrassa,” she promised, smiling warmly up at her husband as he held her chair for her. The menu, of course, was in Russian, and I pointed at the only thing I recognized.
“Can we get somepirozhki?” I asked Maksim, “I don’t care what else you order.”
He leaned in close, “I do remember you seemed quite fond of them at the Christmas brunch,” he whispered before kissing my cheek.
Lucya did not lie, the meal was some of the best bits of food I’d ever put in my mouth, the delicate shavings of raw fish in the Stroganina dish with slices of orange, rye bread and onions. It should not work all together, but I could have eaten another three platters.
During a lull between courses while the men were discussing the merits of one wine or another with the sommelier, Lucya edged her chair closer.
“How are you doing, really?” She looked so beautiful, chic red lipstick and a cream-colored wool dress. And sincere.
“I’m…” I debated what to say. Do I lie? “New Year’s Eve was horrible.” It burst out of me, my big mouth back in charge. “Who has a black tie party where the waiters are trying to take out half the guests? I…”
Still, Lucya looked so kind. She squeezed my clenched hand. “There is no way to ever be prepared for that. And you’re new to this life. In the real world, no one is expected to be ready to hike up their evening gown and dodge bullets.” She laughed, her perfect white teeth glinting in the candlelight. “Though I heard you did an amazing job of doing just that and hiding one of the most priceless jewels in the world in your bra. That’s impressive.”
“Oh please, there was no way I was going to lose the Dresden Green. Are you kidding me right now? Sweet baby Jesus, I’m sure Alexander King would have shot me himself if I lost it!” We’re giggling, whispering together and my chest unclenched. Just a little.
“I am not stupid,” Lucya was almost whispering at this point, head tilted away so no one could read her lips. “I know this was not…” she floundered a little, “something you agreed to.” I sucked in a breath so fast that I started coughing, and she patted my back handing me a glass of water. “I’ve known Maksim most of my life, and he can be so charming. But he is also a charming, controlling bastard.” I made a humming noise, eyes darting to Maksim and Alexi. “But…” she put her hand on mine again, “there is potential, even in the worst possible circumstances, to find that you love the man you married, even in the Bratva. One day - probably when I’m much drunker than now - I’ll tell you my story. What I’m trying to say, I guess, is give yourself a little room to see if Maksim is more than he seems.”
“An autocratic cad?” I whisper.
Lucya laughs so loudly that Alexi looks at her, brow raised in concern. She kisses him and shakes her head, still laughing.
“Cad?”
“Cad,” I nod sourly, “a man who acts with deliberate disregard for another’s feelings or rights.”
