“Is what true?”
“When the cops rescued me from that godawful cell in that horrible building, they told me that you were the don of the Vorobev Mafia.”
I glance at her. “It’s true. But you already knew that.”
She’s lost some color since walking into the courthouse. But apart from that, she’s taking it all in stride. A weaker woman would have been in hysterics at this point. But Camila just sits there, asking cogent questions and processing slowly.
It’s a little unsettling.
And also a little arousing.
“They told me you’ve killed countless men. Some women, too.”
I could explain and justify, but I don’t do either. “Both true.”
“They told me that you took over for your father, who was just as ruthless a don as you are.”
“True again.”
“They told me you make your money on illegal businesses that make billions every year.”
“That’s a bold-faced fucking lie,” I snarl. Then I relent and smirk. “Some of them are legal.”
She crosses her arms and broods. I continue drinking my whiskey.
“The men who took me that night… They took me because they thought I meant something to you,” she says.
My eyes snap to hers. “The cops did a lot of talking, huh?”
“The cops didn’t tell me that,” she says. “She did.”
I’m instantly activated, instantly alert, but I don’t change my demeanor or my expression. I just keep my body relaxed and disassociated. I wouldn’t be fit to be don if you could read all my emotions in my eyes.
I keep that shit buried deep.
“She?”
“The woman who visited me in my cell the day the cops broke in and rescued me.”
Her eyes go hazy, like she’s looking back on that day in her memory. She clamps the trembling fingers of her hands beneath her thighs. I wonder how badly she suffered. It’s been six years since then, but the thought of anyone touching her, hurting her, depriving her?
It makes me fucking furious.
“I wouldn’t trust my memory if I were you,” I tell her. “You were starved and near delirious when they found you.”
She looks at me, confused. “How do you know all that?”
“Because I’m the one who told them where you were.”
Cami does a double take. “What?”
“I tipped off my sources in the police department. They went where I told them to go. Found what I told them to find.”
Her eyebrows knot together. “You expect me to believe that bullshit?”
“They never should have been able to take you from the restaurant that night,” I tell her. “I should have stopped them.”
It’s the closest thing to an apology she’ll ever get from me.
“The only reason they took me is because I was with you.”
“Yes,” I admit. “That’s why he took you.”
“He?”
“Maxim Vorobev,” I explain. “My cousin.”
Her frown deepens as she tries to put together the pieces herself. “Your cousin has issues with you and he tried to hurt you by taking me?”
“I believe he assumed that—”
“That I meant more to you than I really did,” she finishes for me. “Well, he’s extremely wrong about that.”
I glance at her, stirring around the ice in my whiskey. “I never meant to involve you in all this.”
“Does it matter?” she asks. “I was involved. I am involved.”
“For better or for worse,” I joke.
She glares instead of laughing. Then she relents and drops her head back against the seat behind her. “And I thought my family was complicated.”
I almost smile. But there’s still so much she doesn’t know. And I’m not about to let myself get dragged in like I did the last time.
There is no room for weakness in my world.
“So you thought you’d get to me before he did?” she asks. “Is that it?”
I pause before answering. In the gap of that silence, I drink her in. Her eyes are greener than I remember. Her lips are fuller. And she still hasn’t fixed the fallen strap of her gown or the wild frenzy of her hair.
Good—I like her better this way. Unrestrained. Wild. Fiery.
“Camila…” I begin. “He did find you. He found you over a year ago.”
Confusions washes over her face as she struggles to understand what I’m telling her. “I don’t understand. He’s been following me for the last year and a half?”
“No, not following you,” I tell her. “He never had to resort to that. Because you let him into your life.”
Whatever color she did have, drains instantly. “No… no…”
She understands now.
But I have to say it out loud anyway.
“You were going to marry him today.”
9
Camila
“You were going to marry him today.”
The words keep echoing in my ears. Louder and louder with each repetition, until I can’t hear my own fucking thoughts. Until my panic grows so large that there’s no room to breathe.
“Oh God,” I gasp, turning towards the window and slamming on the button to get it to open. I feel like puking.
It doesn’t budge.
“Oh God, I… I can’t breathe.”
He’s saying my name. But it sounds like he’s miles away from me.
“How do I open this fucking window?!”
You were going to marry him today…
I’m flailing frantically. Mashing buttons, my eyes won’t focus and my hands won’t work right and the lack of oxygen is a dagger in my chest.
Somehow, something connects. The window slides down. Not all the way. Just a tiny crack at the top. But it’s enough that sweet British air filters in through the top.
Enough to give me some space.
Enough to give me some perspective.
“Camila.”
I’m not used to hearing my real name anymore. I’ve been Emily Kunis for so long that it started to feel like who I truly am. Or who I truly wanted to be, at least.
So why doesn’t it sound strange when he says it?
When I’ve finally drawn a full breath, I steal a glance at Isaak as I grip the sides of my seat for support. He’s looking back at me coolly, a glass of whiskey in his hand.
“You’re wrong,” I say at last. I wipe the spit from my lips. “Wrong about everything. My fiancé’s name is Alex Royston.”
The pity in Isaak’s eyes makes me want to scream. “That’s his alias. The persona he created to lure you into his trap. His real name is Maxim Vorobev. He’s my cousin. His father was my father’s older brother.”
It makes sense, logically speaking. But it doesn’t compute. Not truly.
“Alex is—”
“Maxim,” he corrects instantly.
I stop short, trying to swallow back the bile at the back of my throat. “He… he’s been lying to me this entire time?”
“Since the beginning.”
“I don’t understand,” I protest weakly. “Why? What was the point of finding me, of proposing to me, of marrying me?”
“The point?” Isaak asks, his gaze sweeping over my face. “The point was to get revenge on me.”
My mouth drops open a fraction.
“My cousin believes that I’ve stolen his life,” he continues. “Marrying you was going to be his way of taking something of mine.”
Despite the haze of shock and disbelief I’m still battling through, that strikes at the heart of my pride.