“I don’t know... Dante doesn’t tell me what he’s up to, but something must be wrong because he called to say he won’t be in touch for a few days.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing he can’t take care of. Julij says Dante’s clever, perceptive, and hell-bent on closing the hit to keep you safe. They both are.”
“That makes one thing Julij’s right about,” I clip, the words bitter on my tongue.
Our recent conversation, the nerve of him implying what he did, boils my blood again. I’ve watched Anatolij closely since Julij left but found no proof to confirm Julij’s words. Not one sentence or look I could fault him with. If anything, he grows on me day by day. The way he treats me has no sexual context, no lustful vibe. If anything, he acts paternal, like I’m a child that needs care, and Anatolij decided that he’s equipped for the task.
“I sense annoyance,” Anatolij drawls in his thick, colorful accent. “What did my nephew do to upset you?”
Regardless of how comfortable I feel around him, I won’t explain that Julij voiced his absurd accusations not just to him but to me too. Under a layer of Anatolij’s politeness and good manners hides an unforgiving, ruthless man whose patience I won’t dare test.
“It doesn’t matter. All that does is what Dante thinks.”
“And what does he think?”
“That I’m safe with you.”
The corners of his mouth curl. “As I said, he’s clever.”
That he is. Among an abundance of other things.
“I’m afraid you’ll have no choice but to endure hours of listening to conversations held in Russian tonight. Don’t worry, most of my guests speak perfect English. I’m sure you’ll find a common topic with some of them.”
The housekeeper enters the dining room with a pot of hot coffee. This time, she approaches me first. Anatolij’s home closely resembles a soap opera set. The maids wear matching gray dresses with white aprons tied around their waists. Every single one is blonde and wears her hair in a granny bun. Security circles the perimeter, armed with long guns. Bouquets of fresh flowers are delivered weekly, and despite many rooms and corridors, the castle is always spotless.
“I took time to learn a few words,” I say. The aroma of bitter coffee hits the back of my nose while the maid fills my cup slowly. “I won’t be able to hold a conversation, but when you mentioned the ball, I thought it’d be nice if I could at least say,zdravstvuyte, menya zovut Layla, andspasibo.”
Anatolij opens his mouth, but before any words leave his lips, peacefulness of the castle is shattered by gunfire. Blood drains from my face faster than Anatolij draws his gun from the holster by his belt. He’s up on his feet, ready and focused within a second.
The maid almost jumps out of her shoes, spilling whatever was left in the coffee pot on my thighs. With a squeal and a strand of what must be apologies in Russian, she tugs my arm, eyes wide. Muffled screams reach our ears, cutting through the air, mixing with the sound of my pounding heart and the maid’s pleas. Blood whooshes in my ears.
“Get down,” Anatolij orders.
As if on autopilot, I slide under the table when he turns his back to us, not a trace of nerves in his posture. His cold-blooded focus fails to eradicate the fear spreading through my mind like a drop of ink in a bowl of water. Pulse throbs in my dry throat. Adrenaline temporarily numbs the burning skin of my thighs. Ten trembling fingers dig into my arm when the maid ducks under the table. I’m not sure if she wants to protect me or hide behind me. Either way, the castle is once again ominously still. Silence falls upon us. The only sound in the room comes from a large, old clock as it counts every nerve-wracking second.
Thirty-seven pass before footsteps echo in the corridor. The whole building has incredible acoustics. I’ve listened to Anatolij stroll down the castle’s halls for two weeks, so I know it is him approaching the living room. His pace is off, though, not the unrushed pace he got me used to. More of an angry, heavy walk, but unmistakable, nonetheless. He enters the dining room, rounds the table, and crouches beside me and the maid who’s still bruising my skin with her bony fingers and me.
“I’m sorry, Layla.” He holds out his hand for me. “False alarm. One of my people didn’t close the basement door properly. The soundproofing didn’t work. There’s a shooting range downstairs, next door to the ballroom.”
A library I am yet to visit, a ballroom large enough for five-hundred guests, and now a shooting range. What else is hidden behind the many closed doors in this place?
“You didn’t mention the shooting range.” I grimace, scrambling out from under the table. Anesthesia in the form of adrenaline fades away, leaving my skin burning like hell.
Anatolij follows my line of sight to my soaked jeans. “You should take them off, Layla. Now. The sooner we apply a cool compress to the burns, the smaller the damage.”
I shimmy out of the jeans, taking care of keeping my panties in place. Pain is stronger than shame, but I don’t want to flash Anatolij by accident.
The maid rushes out of the room and comes back ten seconds later with a bowl of water and a towel. My cheeks warm up once I stand there, in just my t-shirt and a pair of black panties. Thank God I didn’t opt-in for lace today.
“Sit.” Anatolij gestures to the chair, wetting the towel. He kneels before me, his face five inches away from my panties, as he inspects the burns. “I can’t see blisters. It will hurt for a while, but it will heal without scarring. A cold bath should help with the pain.” He presses the make-shift cold compress to my thighs before meeting my gaze. “Can I carry you upstairs?”
“It’s okay. I can walk.”
“Yes, you can, but I doubt you want half of my people to see more of you than absolutely necessary.”
“Good point.”
He slides one arm under my knees, snakes the other around my back, and lifts me up with effortless ease. The maid covers my legs with a dry towel, tucking it in wherever possible so it won’t slip off at the least convenient moment.