Page 17 of Bratva Brother’s Bride

“I saw it,” she says quietly. “I saw everything.”

My throat tightens. “Then why didn’t you⁠—”

“What could I have done? I’m a housekeeper, Mrs. Volkonsky. I have no power here, no influence. If I had spoken up, Dmitri would have fired me at best. At worst...” She trails off, but I understand what she’s not saying.

At worst, he would have done to her what he did to anyone else who crossed him.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

She gives me a small nod and rises from the chair.

I want to say more, but she’s already upright and stepping into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind her. I’m left sitting at the table with my half-eaten soup.

I’m staring at the closed door when it opens again. This time it’s Roman who fills the doorway, his frame too large for the delicate guest room.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

He steps inside and closes the door behind him. The room feels smaller with him in it.

“We need to talk,” he says.

“I don’t want to talk.”

Something shifts in his expression. His hand comes up and brushes a strand of hair away from my face. I’d call it gentle, if not for the steel in his eyes.

“I’m not asking you to trust me, Vera; but whether you like it or not, you’re mine.”

He leaves before I can respond, the door clicking shut behind him.

I sit there for a long moment, then return my focus to the table and force myself to finish the soup. It’s thick and hearty, but each bite makes me want to be sick.

Roman called me his. I’ve gone from one man’s property to another’s.

Across the hall, I hear the sound of a door closing. It must be Roman settling into his room. I wonder if he’s thinking about what happened in the car. Does he feel the same confusion and want that’s churning in my stomach?

Probably not. He doesn’t strike me as a man who worries about anything.

6

ROMAN

Iwake up at six and can’t fall back asleep. The guest room bed is too soft, the pillows wrong. I lie there staring at the ceiling and thinking about Vera across the hall. I wonder what she’s doing right now.

By seven I’m showered and dressed. I stand at the window and watch the grounds staff arrive, their trucks kicking up gravel on the long driveway. They’ll spend the day trimming hedges and raking leaves, pretending that everything is continuing as normal.

By Friday, this manor will be empty.

Oksana knocks at seven-thirty with coffee and the news that Vera is still asleep.

“Let her rest,” I say. “We have a long day ahead.”

She gives me one of her looks, the kind that says she knows more than she’s letting on, then disappears back downstairs.

I take my coffee to Dmitri’s office.

The room is exactly as I remember it from the handful of times I was allowed in here as a kid. It has dark wood paneling and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes. There’s also a massive desk that our grandfather imported from Italy. Everything is positioned to remind anyone who enters that they’re in the presence of power.

I sit behind the desk and start opening drawers.