Page 74 of Mistaken
“Well, we have to go in,” she says.
“For Ekaterina’s sake,” I add sweetly.
Seeing her face light up when a fluffy Persian cat seats himself on her lap is worth the lecture I’m going to get when we go home. We drink tea, tell stories about our pets - the Morozov sisters never had pets, unless you counted their guard dogs, which is horrifying - and play with a basket of kittens until the sun’s about to set.
“Are you tired?” I ask, “Are you up for one last place?”
“What are you thinking?” Tania asks, she’s still wearing her Quidditch robes. Of course, so is Mariya.
“The Dream House?”
Her expression softens. “Yeah, we should do that.”
“The Dream House was first created in 1993 by composer La Monte Young and Marian Zazeela, they’re a visual artist,” I’m narrating as we climb the three stories to the art exhibition. Ivan is stomping ahead of us, “clearing the perimeter,” I’m sure. “Here- take off your shoes and jacket,” I’m so weirdly excited to share this; also, it’s hilarious asking four Bratva tough guys to take off their shoes. “So, when you go inside, everything is a wild, neon pink, and there’s endlessly changing sound waves that flow over you; you’ll never hear anything like them again.”
Everyone glides through the pink light like it's ocean water and I can feel my entire body vibrate.
“Why are you crying?” Ekaterina’s whispering to me and I quickly glance around to see if anyone else caught me, but even the giant Russians are swaying slightly.
“Oh, um… The last time I was here, my brother Charles knew I was tired and cranky. Mom and Dad brought us because she was a musician, and she wanted us to ‘feel’ the music.” She’s listening, a slight smile on her face. “I was getting mad because I couldn’t feel it, the way she’d promised I would. So, Charles held my hand and told me that the music would vibrate through him and into me and it would be like I was getting the sound from inside out, sort of. So, we held hands and I could feel the vibration travel up my spine, just like he said, and it was like we were making music together.” I’m smiling and trying to wipe my wet cheeks. “We weren’t very close, you know? I don’t have many good memories with him. So, this place is precious to me.”
Ekaterina takes my hand and squeezes it, and I’m filled with the sound and vibration and the warmth of her hand.
Maksim…
“I am sorry, but you can see why your offer is not enough.”
I’m Facetiming Farid in Morocco, and the slimy bastard is grinning at me, which shows his absolute lack of desire to live. He can’t imagine I will let this stand. “My offer for your guns is nearly twice what you can obtain anywhere else,” I say coldly.
“True, Morozov, true. But what I need is a safe travel route into America for my livestock.” He’s leaning back, confident and grinning and if he were here, I would slit his throat for his audacity.
“I am not in the business of human trafficking,” I hiss.
“Understood, of course. Understood. But I am, and I assure you, you need not ever see the cargo. I just need a location to ship it to.”
He means women. Not cargo, not livestock. He means children. “I will not agree to that,” I am coldly furious, and he would be insane to say no to me.
“Very well,” Farid sighs, as if disappointed. “I understand. But there are other bidders, so, good luck to you, my friend. Let me know if you change your mind.”
I want to shoot him in the face. I want to beat him to death. Not even for the foolishness, the audacity of refusing our generous offer, but for thinking I would sink so low as to help him bring women and children here for a short, horrific life of misery and pain. But instead, I disconnect the call and then throw my glass against the wall, watching it shatter in a spray of crystal.
We are being attacked on every side. I am running out of time, guns, and men. And I still can’t find who’s attempting to destroy our family. I cannot do this without more manpower to protect what is ours. And unlike the scum who is hiring mercenaries to destroy us, I must have men I can trust. Allies I can count on.
Checking the time, I see it’s 10:15 am in Milan. Placing my hands flat on the glossy surface of my desk, I stare at them. I’ve killed with these hands, caused pain. Sometimes, given pleasure. But it’s not enough. I place the call. “Giovanni. It’s Maksim Morozov.”
The next day…
The door to the study slams open and I look up, ready to tear the intruder apart.
“How could you do this to Mariya!” Ella is furious, flushed, and stalking toward me with her fists clenched.
Leaning back, I put my fingers together, watching her calmly. “I take it you had lunch with Lucya today?”
“When were you going to tell me? Wait!” Ella spluttered, “Wait, what is far more important here is when the hell were you going to tell your fourteen-year-old sister you just traded her off in an arranged marriage! Who are you? You told me that you hated your dad for nearly giving Ekaterina to that creepy Moscow Pakhan and now you’re doing the same thing?”
If it weren’t for the fact that Ella looks ready to stab me, I would be hard right now. She’s magnificent, her pale green eyes blazing and her long hair flying everywhere.
“This doesn’t concern you.” I expect her to stalk around my office in circles, still furious and shouting, but she surprises me. She sweeps all the expensive contents of my bar onto the hardwood floor in a resounding crash. There’s broken shards of crystal shooting across the floor mixed with ice from the silver bucket and my last bottle of vodka soaking into the nearby antique Persian rug.
