“Really? Why not?”
He leaned closer, across the seat, as the truck rolled up the long driveway leading to the main house.
“I’m adopted,” he said with a tilted head and a smile. “I don’t have pure, fresh, perfect Oligarch blood pumping in my veins.”
“Gross. Is that really a thing?”
“You’d be surprised. It doesn’t matter that I’m capable and my family has thrived. My parents were addicts, and that’s all many people need to know.”
“I think that’s bullshit.”
“I think so too.”
The truck crested the low slope and the house spread out before us. The mountains were closer, less than a ten-minute drive to their base, and the building was dropped in their shadow. Home was a mix of a rugged outdoorsy aesthetic and high-tech security. Cameras dotted the eaves, hidden in shadows, and men patrolled the grass. It was the safest place in the world, or at least I’d always thought so.
Now it seemed small and foreboding.
The trucks parked. Most of Nervosa’s men got out and stretched their legs. Nervosa watched me carefully, waiting for me to make the first move.
“I didn’t want to come back,” I said quietly. “I hoped we could do this another way.”
“Like a phone call or Zoom? Imagine, two Oligarchs Zooming.”
“Better than this.”
“Sorry, Melanie. But I want to see where you grew up. I want to meet your people.”
I clenched my jaw. That was what he wanted. But what about what I wanted?
It didn’t matter. He introduced me to my uncle, and I met my cousin because of that. Now I owed him this, and once it was over, our deal was complete and I could be rid of him and the rest of his monstrous Oligarchs.
I climbed out and he followed.
My mother stood on the porch wrapped in a gold sweater and cream-colored pants. She smiled, her hair piled on her head, as we approached. I frowned in response, not sure what the heck she was doing.
She never greeted guests. Not that we had any, but still.
“Hello, hello, my darling,” she said, walking over to hug and kiss me. “How are you, my love? It’s been, what, weeks? Months? Years? My, how you’ve grown.”
“Hi, Mom. You’re being weird.”
She grinned past me at Nervosa. “And you. You’re the famous Oligarch I’ve heard so much about.”
“Alex Nervosa,” he said, introducing himself.
Mother shook his hand. “Lovely to meet you. Call me Constance, please.”
“Very well,” he said, and Mom led us inside.
She prattled on about the art and the architecture as she gave Nervosa the tour. I stared at her like she’d sprouted a second head, trying to rectify her behavior with the woman I’d grown up around. Mom rarely left her wing of the house and spent her time painting, posting online, and complaining about the staff. She never introduced herself to people, and absolutely never gave tours.
Yet she was doing both now, and my head felt like it might explode from my shoulders.
“And here’s the great room. The kitchens are that way, but the cooks are busy, so we’ll leave them be, yes? Feel free to call down for whatever you want once you’re settled.” We stood in the main living area surrounded by plush furniture, heavy rugs, wood walls, and bronze statues and framed art.
“You’ve been extremely accommodating, Constance,” Nervosa said, oozing with charm.
“It’s not often we get a visit from an Oligarch. Even one like you.” She laughed, hand to her mouth, and began to lecture about the painting above the mantle.
But Nervosa noticed her comment. His smile slipped, and I couldn’t help but stifle a laugh.
I knew she’d say something terrible sooner or later. She couldn’t help herself.
“Is Redmond home?” I asked once Mother was finished with her speech about the Orchard family and some portrait one of our ancestors had made by some famous artist I didn’t care about. I’d heard the whole thing before and wasn’t interested in hearing it again.
“Not yet, not yet,” she said, shaking her head. “Not until tomorrow morning. Make yourselves comfortable, please.” She laughed lightly.
“I live here,” I said, annoyed. “And you’re being bizarre. Why isn’t he here yet?”
“He’s on the way, dear. Redmond’s a busy man. Head of an empire, you know. That’s the kind of man who should run an Oligarchy, don’t you think, Nervosa?”
He said nothing, only stared at my mother.
She waved a hand in the air and walked off. “Well, well, do have fun, be good children, yes? I’ll be in my room, darling.” And she was gone, retreating into her lair.
Nervosa wandered toward the painting, hands clasped behind his back. A man stood in front of a massive tree, a sword thrust into its trunk, representing—something, I didn’t know, and didn’t care.
“She’s a nightmare,” I said to his back, feeling bad. “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be. I’m used to it.” He touched the mantel and turned. “Sounds like we have the day to kill.”