The tires crunch over the gravel driveway that has been cleared of snow. The car slows to a stop in front of the dwelling. Two cars from our convoy are already parked outside, the men carrying our luggage into the house.
I turn to look through the back window. Another two cars are entering behind us. Movement in the garden catches my eye. Men dressed in white combat pants, matching snow jackets, beanies, and yellow-tinted anti-glare sunglasses walk along the perimeter of the wall that surrounds the grounds. They’re armed with automatic rifles and knives strapped to their thighs. They’re so well camouflaged, blending into the white scenery and the stark, charcoal lines of the winter trees, that I didn’t notice them until they moved. There must be at least two dozen of them. I stop counting at twenty.
When I turn back in my seat, Alex is studying me. Yuri and Igor get out. Igor heads toward the back of the mansion while Yuri gets Alex’s door. Freezing cold air barrels into the car, but Alex doesn’t make a move to get out.
“Ask me,” he says.
I blink. “Ask you what?”
He lifts his gaze to the landscape beyond my window. “About the men.”
I requested that he lay his cards on the table, and I’m not going to waste an opportunity to gain a better understanding of my situation. “What are they? Soldiers? Guards?”
“They’re here for our protection.”
Another vague answer. So much for hoping he was finally going to give me something. “Right.” I look through my window. “I suppose a job title doesn’t apply then.”
“I don’t tag them with a label like soldier or guard.”
“Or mafia,” I say under my breath.
“Look at me.” When I obey reluctantly, he continues. “They’re well trained and they’re loyal. That’s what matters.”
If he says so. “How many of them are here?”
“Thirty, give or take a few. The rest are training at a base camp on the outskirts of the city. I want my men to keep in shape and up to date with their weapons.”
“Thirty?” I exclaim. “How many are there in total?”
“I have two hundred men in this particular line of work in my employ at any given moment. They rotate between here and my offices, taking turns with patrolling, training, and resting.”
Shivering from the cold that has invaded the car, I glance up at the façade of the house. The building is huge, big enough to house twenty people. “Do they all stay here?”
He takes my gloved hands and rubs them between his, warming them through the butter-soft leather. “They live in the barracks at the back of the property.”
I gape at him. “You have a barracks?”
“It used to be a barn—storage space for foliage and a stable for horses. I had it converted into a dormitory for the men.” He takes my arm. “Come. You’re cold. We’ll talk more in the house. I just wanted to put your mind at ease about the presence of the men before we went inside.”
Not having a choice, I follow him to the front door, but I refuse his arm when he offers it for assistance. My heart is still aching too much.
A tall, blond woman, whom I judge to be in her fifties, greets us at the door. Once she’s closed it behind us, she offers Alex a bright smile and launches into rapid-fire Russian.
He holds up a hand. “English, please. We don’t want Katerina to feel excluded.”
The woman’s smile is much more reserved as she acknowledges me. “Your girlfriend doesn’t speak Russian?”
“Not yet,” Alex says, removing his coat. “Katyusha, this is Lena, my housekeeper.” He opens an entryway closet and hangs his coat on a hanger. “She’ll take care of all your needs.”
Politeness compels me to say, “Pleased to meet you.”
In turn, she gives me a cool once-over when Alex’s back is turned.
Since I’m rooted to the spot, overcome with the grandeur surrounding me, Alex takes charge of unwinding my scarf and unbuttoning my coat. Coming somewhat to my senses, I push off my coat, remove the hat, and comb my fingers through my hair.
While Lena busies herself with putting my clothes in the closet, I look around the foyer. The opulence is overwhelming. Downton Abbey has nothing on this place. The high, domed ceiling looks like the pictures I’ve seen of Michelangelo’s painting on the Sistine Chapel ceiling, except this one depicts a czar and his court. A double staircase with a golden balustrade runs from both ends of the foyer to meet on the landing. Expensive-looking rugs cover the marble floors, and a red carpet runner decorates the stairs. Chandeliers throw soft yellow light over moss-green walls adorned with Russian baroque art. I’m not a connoisseur, but I’ve picked up bits and pieces in conversations with Ricky, an artist who’s dating my best friend, Joanne—enough to know that if these paintings are originals, which I suspect they are, they must be priceless.