Page 14 of A Bride for the Mafia King

“Master bedroom. Second door on the left.”

I duck out of his arms and stride toward the bedrooms, my heart still hammering, shivering as his hand trails down my spine in parting. I can feel his eyes on my ass as I stride down the hall. Taking an unsteady breath, I straighten despite his touch. The feeling leaves me desperately trying to pretend that I have even an ounce of control over anything at all as I struggle to ignore the fierce, empty ache between my thighs.

Chapter Six

Eva

Tolya’s Penthouse, Day Four

“Here’s the suggested menu for the week, if you would look it over and notate any changes you’d like.” Galina, the housekeeper, requests as she hands me two pieces of thick cardstock paper.

“Of course,” I acknowledge.

Galina is the first woman I met here. Mid-fifties with sharp looks and a no-nonsense Russian work ethic, she’s stern yet kind. She doesn’t speak much English, but we work out a rhythm and she quickly begins to remind me of my aunt – stern, watchful, protective in a prickly pear sort of way.

“I’ll bring it back to you when she’s done.” Mila tells her, sweeping into the room with backpack in hand.

“Thank you Galina,” I say dismissively as I peruse the first page. Then teasingly ask Mila, “Windy out there?”

Dropping her bag abruptly she buries her hands in her hair using her fingers to comb and tame it.

“Chicago definitely earns its nickname as the windy city,” she complains. “I’m about ready to super glue my hair in place at this point.”

She’s been assigned as my personal assistant. Though she’s more like a glorified babysitter.

Mila’s a ray of sunshine in an otherwise dark household. And while her lighthearted demeanor actually makes me laugh, I get the distinct impression that she’s like all the other Russians around me: dangerous beneath the surface.

She shows up every morning promptly at 9am with a long to-do list that’s never that important and a leather briefcase that smells faintly of oil paint and old paper.

Both women have been nice enough to me. Attempting in their own ways to make me feel comfortable and welcome.

The men, however, are an entirely different story. They hate me. Each and every one of them.

While not one of them has dared to say it outright, they don’t have to. It’s in their eyes. Their silence. The stern way they scrutinize me.

The days begin to bleed together as I remain cooped up in the penthouse under lock and key. Tolya has given his men strict instruction not to let me leave unless they receive his express permission.

Only in times of heightened threat have I been held captive within my own home before. And for all intents and purposes, the penthouse is now my home, no matter how much I dislike it. It’s nothing but a gilded cage disguised by a stunning view of the city.

Tolya is barely home. I awake to the sound of the espresso machine each morning, the quiet rustling of the housekeeper and the occasional pit pat of his shoes on the marble floor. Keeping himself busy with meetings, strategizing power plays, and whatever else mafia kings do behind closed doors. It keeps him away long enough for me to catch my bearings in this new world.

By the third day, I’ve had enough of pacing the same floor. Today, I’m absolutely over it.

As usual Mila is in the media room, doing whatever it is that she does in the afternoons once all the mediocre tasks are completed.

“I need to get out of here. This place is making me insane,” I yell to Mila from the hallway as I pass the entertainment room where she’s working, grabbing my phone and my purse. “I’m going out.”

I hear papers shuffle and feet scurry against the floor as Mila yells, “Eva, no. You know the rules. Tolya was very specific!”

“Screw Tolya,” I say, waving a dismissive hand as I head for the elevator, “I’m his wife, not his prisoner."

“No.” Mila protests rounding the corner and trotting up the hall to catch up to me. “But you are under watch. If Tolya finds out⁠—”

“If?” I snap back over my shoulder. “You think he doesn’t already know I’m going insane here? That he isn’t doing all of this on purpose?”

Stepping up the stairs of the entryway that leads to the elevator I wave my hand at the guard on duty. “Step aside.”

“No.” He refuses in a cold voice. Standing still as a giant statue.