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“There’s nothing anyone can do.”
“You must go back to your mother,” Isabella tells me. “I can continue on my own.”
“NO!” I emphasize the word. “There is nothing I can do about my father, and my mother has a friend with her.”
“Andrey…” Isabella is about to argue, but I cut her off.
“I’m not leaving you alone.” My tone brooks no argument, and to my surprise, she sighs and puts her head on my shoulder, showing me her support.
Chapter 18
ISABELLA
Upon landing in Toronto, Andrey pulls me into his arms, capturing my lips in a passionate kiss. His naughty whispered promises for later send a shiver down my spine, making my core clench with anticipation.
We’re staying overnight in a luxury hotel. After a delicious meal at a Toronto restaurant, we decide to stroll through the city, enjoying the brisk evening air.
The restaurant is close, just a short distance from the hotel. It is also a convenient walk to the bank, which I need to go to tomorrow. Everything I need is in a safety deposit box in there and we arrived in Toronto too late for the banks.
The bank I need is conveniently located behind a women’s shelter. A shelter I helped develop and know everyone who works there—the women who are loyal to me.
I didn’t understand the meaning of loyalty, trust, and deception as much as I have over these past eight weeks. I have a decoy go bag stashed at the women’s shelter. The key to my safety deposit box is hidden in a secret compartment in that duffel bag. A sliver of guilt slices through me for deceiving Andrey about where I was really going in the morning.
I push the guilt aside, reminding myself who Andrey really is and that I don’t see a future for us. He won’t change, and I don’t want to live like this. I know I can never accept a life of crime and live in his world. But that’s a problem for tomorrow. I can enjoy tonight and I know tonight, even though he won’t admit it, Andrey needs me.
I’ve seen the flicker of pain that keeps flashing in his eyes every time he checks his phone as if waiting for his mother to call and let him know she’s done what she had to do. His father died from being beaten to an inch of his life and left to die. How Ivan even managed to get to the Velvet Lounge in the condition Andrey described to me is a fucking miracle.
How Grace, my mother, and every other woman married or born into this copes with living in this world I can’t understand. Even when I didn’t know I was born into this world of Andrey’s, it had already taken too much from me. I lost my mother and eighteen years with my brother.
This is not a life for a child. And I have two to protect now. I’m beginning to understand why my father built that pseudo-world for me—he wanted me to have a small slice of a normal life. I don’t want this for my kids.
Grace Belov fell apart when her son was taken. I can’t imagine that kind of pain. I know life is unpredictable, but Andrey’s world magnifies the risks, and now she’s lost her husband in the most horrific of ways and left with a choice that will forever haunt her because even though the doctors tell you so, you just never know if you did the right thing or not, pulling that plug.
As soon as Andrey told me about his father, I knew what had to be done. Still, as we walk hand in hand, I’m struck by how normal and comfortable it feels to be with Andrey—it’s actually quite intoxicating. He can be so charming and such a good listener. Then there is the underlying current of sexual tension that has been torturing me since we landed.
We stop in front of a shop window displaying baby products. My heart jolts with more guilt. I imagine what it would be like if Andrey weren’t a Bratva boss and I weren’t a mafia princess.
Fuck! I still can’t get used to thinking of myself that way. Or my father as a mob boss, my mother and brother as Bratva. It’s like a bad soap opera.
I half expect a stranger to approach, claiming to be a long-lost relative. Or maybe I’ve slipped into an alternate dimension and lost my memory of my real life. Maybe in another reality, I’m Isabella Moretti, an Italian opera singer. I snort softly at the thought. I can’t even sing normally, let alone as an opera singer.
“What’s got you smiling like that?” Andrey’s voice is close to my ear and sends a shiver down my spine.
“I was just imagining myself as an Italian opera singer.”
“Oh!” His brows shoot up, genuine amazement lighting up his face. “That’s rather a random thought.”
“I do this random thought thing when I’m stressed, anxious, or running for my life and keeping an eye out for a messenger to bring me some doomsday device,” I say, trying to keep my tone light.
“You should be an author,” Andrey comments, admiration lacing his voice. “You have quite the imagination.”
A small smile tugs at my lips, but it quickly fades. “Growing up as a prisoner in my own home wasn’t easy.” I snuggle closer to Andrey’s warmth. “Constantly under surveillance, interacting only with bodyguards and my eccentric best friend... my mind became my escape.”
“Our father may have been strict,” Andrey says, squeezing my hand gently, “but it was nothing compared to what you went through.”
I realize his words are meant to comfort me, but they only highlight the differences between us—our upbringing and views.
“At least you knew who you really were. The world you were born into was never hidden from you.”
