But that failure isn’t what bothers me. He’s on the run now. It won’t be long until I dig the rat up from his hiding hole and end his miserable life.
No, the thing I’m angry about is the time it took to get this far. Eighteen months they were engaged. That’s eighteen months of touching her. Of kissing her. Of taking what was never his to take.
That shit makes me see red.
“You okay, sobrat?” Bogdan asks, shutting the screen and pushing the laptop aside.
“I want everyone on high alert,” I say instead of answering his question. “The fucker knows I have her now. He’s going to try and take her back.”
“That would really put a damper on your honeymoon.”
I chuck a pen at his head. He ducks and laughs, knowing he’s the only one who can get away with saying that kind of thing to me.
“She’s very beautiful, you know,” he adds, slumping back in his chair.
“So you’ve said.”
“Do you think Maxim knows?”
“Knows what?”
“That you and Camila only really had that one night together. One conversation, really.”
“I don’t give a fuck what he knows. He miscalculated badly.”
“Oh, I don’t know about all that.”
I narrow my eyes at Bogdan. I love the little whelp, but he can be tiring sometimes. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“I’m just saying, he was right in assuming she meant something to you. Otherwise, why would we go through all this trouble to take her back?”
“I didn’t want him thinking he’d won.”
“And that’s the only reason.”
I glare at him. “Yes.”
“If you say so.”
“Don’t make me send you back to New York.”
“Please,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes. “You’d miss me too much.”
“But at least I’d be able to get some peace and quiet.”
Bogdan chuckles, but his expression irons out as he looks at the mess of paperwork on the desk between us. “You don’t have to go through all this yourself, you know. We have an accountant.”
“I don’t trust anyone with my money but me.”
Bogdan shakes his head. “Papa used to do this, too.”
Our father’s shadow has been hanging over my head since the moment he took his last breath. In life, he made sure to imprint his presence into the very folds of my skin. No matter what I do, I can’t escape his voice in my head. I glance down at the silver scars along my right arm and remember him.
“I should have had the same scars,” Bogdan says suddenly, noticing where my gaze is directed.
“What?”
“You think I don’t know, but I do,” he says. “He never cut me—because you stood in front of me. You stopped him from teaching me the lessons he taught you.”
My jaw flexes uncomfortably. “When Uncle Yakov died, I knew I’d be don one day. So it was necessary for me to learn. It wasn’t necessary for you.”
“Sure, I know all that. But I know how much you protected me from him.”
“Are you getting sentimental on me, little brother?”
Bogdan smiles. “Not today.”
I get to my feet and move for the door. I feel restless and impatient sitting here. I need to pace, to move, to feel like I’m doing something.
Bogdan reaches for his laptop to resume the hunt for my traitorous cousin. “Before you go,” he calls after me without looking up from his screen, “you should know that Mother called this morning.”
“Did you tell her we’re in London?”
“I had to.”
I nod. “I’ll call her later.”
“You better, or there will be hell to pay. Even big, powerful dons have to listen to their mothers.”
I grumble and give him the finger.
“Off to dinner with your new bride?” he asks, wagging his eyebrows at me.
I roll my eyes. “I need information from her.”
“If that’s your story,” he smiles. “You need to tell Mother she has a daughter-in-law.”
“She doesn’t.”
“I think you might be confused on the meaning of the word, brother.”
“I’m not confused about anything,” I snarl. “This whole thing is fake. Bullshit. An arrangement, nothing more.”
“Mhmm. Whatever you say, sir.”
“You are insufferable. You know that, right?”
He smiles wide. “Better than anyone.”
12
Isaak
I pace the grounds for a while and brood despite the rain. Or perhaps because of it. I’ll always prefer New York, but there’s something about London’s dreariness that suits me.
When eight o’clock nears, I step into my private quarters, shower, and change into a white button down shirt and crisp black slacks. I cuff the sleeves to my elbow, then make my way to the dining room.
I’m five minutes early, but she’s already there when I arrive. I freeze in the doorway.
“I take it you didn’t like the dress?”
Cami’s face is free of makeup and her hair is a rat’s nest piled on top of her head. She’s dressed in tattered jeans, a logo-free white t-shirt, and a pair of fuzzy pink flip-flops that I didn’t even realize I paid for.
She turns from where she’s standing by the windows. “Under other circumstances, it would’ve been fine,” she says. Her eyes spark with defiance. “But I don’t like being forced into things.”
My first instinct is to rage. But immediately, I realize that’s the wrong move. She probably planned this little rebellion from the moment I left her room. She wants me to get angry, to see how far she can push me.
I’ll bite back at the little kiska.
But on my own terms. Not hers.
“Shall we sit?” I gesture gracefully to the table.
She plonks herself down unceremoniously on the chair opposite me and tucks her hair back behind her ears.
It’s clear she’s taken pains to look as unappealing as possible, but the effort is laughable.
She’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.
“You look lovely.”
She frowns. “You’re overdressed,” she says, eyeing my white button down.
“Wine?”
“No thank you,” she says brusquely.
I pour her a glass anyway. A moment later, the maids roll in the food trolley and start uncovering the silver cloches. One by one, the dishes are revealed and the room fills with savory scents.
“Help yourself,” I tell her. Her face is alight with hunger, although she’s trying not to tip her hand to me.
She shrugs like she doesn’t care about anything one way or the other. Then she takes a piece of grilled barramundi and drenches it in the accompanying sweet-chili sauce. I notice her eyes flicker towards the wine a couple of times, but she manages to resist.
If this is her “cooperating,” we have some work to do.
“We have a library in the manor,” I tell her. “You’re welcome to use it whenever you want.”
She nods.
“And the gardens cover about an acre. So there’s a lot to see there.”
Another nod.
“Is something wrong?”
Her eyes snap to mine. I’m met with green fire. “Oh, you mean apart from the fact that I’m a prisoner in this awful house and this fucked-up marriage?”
“You can leave,” I say. “Just so long as you’re accompanied by me or my men.”
“Jailers.”