Page 24 of Lord of the Underworld

"Doesn't it seem strange to be getting takeout at your location when you're so paranoid that you won't even let me know where you live?" I ask, looking out the window at our security making their rounds around the mansion and the gardens. They're subtle, it would be terribly gauche to have the neighbors see armed guards, of course. Nothing so pedestrian and obvious.

"It's different," he says. "Gig workers would never rat on each other. We know our people."

"You're kidding me," I say bluntly. "They'd slip arsenic in your falafel for an extra fifty bucks. I wouldn't even hold it against them; fifty bucks is fifty bucks."

"You're a rich girl," Montel scoffs. "I'm telling you, it's different for us worker bees."

"Montel," I sigh, "how much did you make last year?"

Silence.

"Eleven million," he says reluctantly.

"Yeah, okay, worker bee." As I'm turning away from the window, my glance falls to the window sill and I frown.

"Oksana, are you still there?"

"Oh, sorry, Montel. I just got distracted. Let me know on the passports, okay?"

"Will do, talk soon," he says.

Crouching next to the window sill, I eye two marks on the white paint. Rusty brown. Faintly raised. Two fingerprints made from dried blood. They're big. I carefully place my fingers up against them. They're much bigger than mine. Somebody was in here.

***

Moy dóchenka - Russian endearment for my darling daughter.

Chapter Twelve

In which this is the wedding of Mr. Maurice’s dreams.

Oksana…

Wedding Day…

At 5 AM, Mr. Maurice hauls Anka, Mother, and me, into the Bridal Suite at The Carlton Hotel, where his entourage is lying in wait. The suite bursts with flower arrangements and an alarming amount of pink. He connects a cable to the big TV in the sitting area and I realize, to my alarm, that he has a Power Point presentation for us. Anka and I look at each other. We both want to laugh, but we're too tired. Last night was well-spent in another dizzying round of cocktails with the Morozova cousins and it's worth the debilitating headache I'm currently enjoying.

Anka wanders out onto the terrace, overlooking the city.

"It's a lovely suite," Mother says, nodding approvingly.

"There is an excellent view of the Kremlin," Mr. Maurice says proudly.

"Hey, Oksana, look at this!" Anka calls, looking deadly serious. "There's a view of the Kremlin!"

This is an inexplicably popular sales line used in every Moscow hotel brochure and since I'm not getting married at the Kremlin, I'm not sure how it's relevant, but Anka and I need a laugh.

Within a couple of hours, Mr. Maurice's assistants transform the suite, adding a full makeup station, my wedding dress, an identical backup wedding dress, a full send-off outfit, a backup send-off outfit, and an avalanche of jewelry, hair supplies and most concerningly, a wig that perfectly matches my hair color.

"What is that?" I ask, eyeing it like it might come to life and leap at my face.

"In case your hair is limp and unmanageable," the stylist says.

Anka squeezes next to me on the bench at the makeup table. "Do you think they could construct an entire replacement Oksana? In case you are not enough to live up to Mr. Maurice's standards?"

My face is nearly purple, trying to keep a semi-hysterical howl inside. Mr. Maurice has already threatened Xanax if I looked "unsettled."

By noon, the Bride's Brunch room service is delivered and everyone enjoys it, except for me. Mr. Maurice is worried about 'face puffiness,' though I am allowed six strawberries from the fruit garnish. My hair stylist Zoya is entering round three with my hair, working on achieving "maximum volume" and complaining about how long it is.