“Mom!” I cry out and wrap my arms around her neck, squeezing her to me.
“Vasya, baby.” My dad sweeps the hair off my face. “Are you okay? What did that bastard do to you?”
“I’m fine.” I release Mom and, a second later, end up wrapped in Dad’s bear hug. “I missed you so much.”
* * *
“Here.” Dad sets a tablet in front of me on the kitchen island. The screen displays a map. “Point to the location of that cocksucker’s lair.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so. Now, Vasilisa.”
“Roman.” My mom sends him a warning look as she passes me a cup of tea. “Not now.”
“That bastard kept our daughter prisoner for two months, malysh! I won’t wait another second. Where is he, Vasilisa?”
I press the heels of my hands over my eyes. It shouldn’t have happened like this. The plan was for me and Rafael to face my family together. With a happy cover story of how we met. I didn’t expect Rafael to tell my father that he kidnapped me. With my father thinking the worst, how can I explain to him that I’m in love with Rafael? Dad would never believe me. And it would just make the whole situation so much worse.
“I told you, I wasn’t a prisoner,” I say. “We had a deal. I did the work he hired me for, and he sent me back when I finished.”
“Really? Just what kind of work did that asshole need you to do?”
“It concerned his company. I can’t disclose the details.”
“Why did you lie to me then, hmm? And why won’t you tell me his location?”
“Because I know you, Dad. Don’t you dare send anyone to do something to Rafael.”
“Why? Rafael De Santi is a first-rate assassin, Vasilisa.”
“I know.”
He leans forward, his face drawing level with mine. “Did he touch you? Did that fucker put his dirty paws on my baby girl?” His voice is barely above a whisper. I know that tone. It means he’s furious.
I swallow and force myself to hold his gaze. Telling him the truth now is out of the question. I know my father all too well. If he even suspects that there was something between me and Rafael, he’ll kill him.
“He was a perfect gentleman.” I lay my palms on the countertop. Immediately, my mind is flooded with images of Rafael ravenously eating my pussy on a similar-looking kitchen island.
“Whose jacket are you wearing, Vasilisa?” my brother’s voice booms from the other side of the kitchen.
I look over my shoulder and find Alexei leaning against the fridge, his arms crossed over his chest. He’s been staying out of this conversation, so I completely forgot he’s here. Panic rises in the pit of my stomach. Before he left for college, we were inseparable. But with too-short visits over summer and holiday breaks, not to mention my father’s demands on my brother’s time when he’s here, we’ve kinda drifted apart. Alexei, however, has always been the most perceptive person I know. And he knows all my tells.
“It’s Rafael’s,” I choke out.
“Mm-hmm.” He pushes away from the fridge and approaches me with slow, deliberate steps. “I’ll go upstairs and get you a sweater. You can take that off. I’ll throw it in the trash.”
“No!” I snap and tug the jacket tighter around me. “Don’t you dare touch it!”
Alexei’s eyes narrow, then he looks at our father. “She’s lying.”
“I’m not lying! I’m tired and just want to go to sleep. Can we continue this interrogation later, please?”
My father grips the edge of the counter, his fingers flexing on it over and over. Then, he takes a deep breath. And another.
“Sure, baby.” He pulls me into him and kisses the top of my head. “Everything is going to be okay. Get some rest.”
With a soft stroke on my cheek, he turns around and leaves the kitchen, his cane clicking on the tiled floor. Alexei trails behind him.
“I’ll make you something to eat,” Mom says as she takes a plate out of the cupboard. “I’ll bring it upstairs.”
“Thanks,” I mumble.
Exiting the kitchen, I notice the light at the far end of the long hallway—my dad’s office door has been left slightly ajar. He’s speaking with someone in a hushed voice. Whatever he’s saying is in Russian, and I don’t catch much because of his rapid words. I’m not too great with Dad’s language. I do okay, but only in conversations where the speakers don’t talk too fast. And right now, my father isn’t pacing himself for my benefit.
“I’m going to bed,” I say, standing at the threshold of Dad’s domain.
He nods, the phone still pressed to his ear. “Okay, baby.”
“You’re staying up?”
“Might as well. I have some . . . business to discuss with Sergei.”
“Tell him I’ll drop by soon.”
“Sure. Sleep well.” His tone of voice when speaking with me is warm, but the instant I turn my back and Dad returns to the conversation with his brother, his words are hard and laced with rage. Uncle Sergei must have fucked up. Again. Real bad this time, by the sounds of it.
On the upper floor, I sneak into Yulia’s room and tiptoe to her bedside. After kissing her cheek, I head into my room, which is next door to my sister’s, and plop on the edge of the bed. My eyes wander over the familiar walls and furniture, yet everything feels surreal. I glance at the window overlooking the backyard. The early rays of the sun are breaking through the clouds. If I were in Sicily now, I’d be hearing the crickets perfecting their song. And I’d be lying next to Rafael, with my face buried in his neck. I dip my head, pressing my nose to the lapel of his suit jacket. It still smells like him.
