Page 18 of Sheltering Hollis

I closed my eyes, allowing myself to relax for the first time in what felt like forever. The nightmare of the past days seemed less terrifying with Dimitri by my side. He was dangerous, yes, but he was also my protector. And for now, that was enough.

Eventually, he pulled away, his hand dropping from my hair to rest on my shoulder. “We need to get going,” he said softly. “Rodriguez won’t wait forever.”

I nodded, opening my eyes to meet his gaze. There was a determination there, a fierce protectiveness that made me feel safe despite the danger we were about to face.

“I won’t leave your side,” he vowed, threading a hand through mine.

As we left the hotel, Luka and Dimitri conversed in Russian, sometimes heatedly, but it was hard to tell. The language was harsh and guttural to my ears. I wasn’t sure if they were angry or not. Finally, Luka settled himself into the car’s front seat, and Dimitri seated us in the back.

The ride to Rodriguez’s mansion was filled with tense silence. I could feel Dimitri’s eyes on me occasionally as if assessing my readiness. I forced myself to stay calm and embrace the role I had to play.

As we pulled up to the opulent mansion, the reality of the evening hit me. I had to pretend to be a woman he had bought for his pleasure. The thought should have made my skin crawl, but I felt safe with Dimitri. Somehow, after the moment we’d had in the hotel room, I wasn’t dreading it as much as I had been. He’d keep his word. Dimitri threaded his hand through mine as he helped me from the car, speaking in Russian to Luka as he led me to the door.

“Let’s go, baby, It’s time to pretend.”

TWELVE

Hollis

The grand entrance of the mansion loomed before us, flanked by armed guards and extravagant decor. As we entered, the lavish surroundings did little to hide the lurking danger. Gunmen dressed in black stood guard outside the building, eyeing me with interest. The man from the warehouse, Rodriguez himself, welcomed us. His predatory gaze fixated on me, feeling like a physical assault.

As we took our seats, Rodriguez leaned in closer, his voice a low murmur. “You’ve outdone yourself, Dimitri. Look at what a gem.” He looked me over as if I were cattle, which I supposed was what he considered me in his eyes.

“I only settle for the best,” Dimitri replied smoothly, his hand resting possessively on my lower back as we moved through the house.

“Do you share?” Rodriguez asked, following a little too closely and breathing into my space.

Dimitri didn’t stop, but his hand flexed on my back. “Don’t be ludicrous. I don’t share my toys.” He shot Rodriguez a disparaging glare.

Rodriguez led us into a lavishly decorated dining room. A long table was set for dinner, and women, their eyes glazed and dull as if drugged, lounged along the sides of the walls on low couches. Their clothing was scant, straps hanging off their shoulders, bruises evident on their arms, a stark reminder of their vulnerability. A few glanced up as we came in, raking their eyes over my clean clothes and Dimitri’s arm that held me close to him. I was suddenly well aware of how precarious my circumstances were, but guilt burned in my stomach for not being able to do anything to help them. It was obvious that some of them had been here for months, if not longer. Several were dressed in cocktail dresses and lounged, chatting with each other, smoking long cigarillos with their legs crossed delicately as if they were at some soiree instead of victims. They had leveraged their value somehow; they were freshly showered, and their clothes were new, jewels at their throats.

As we took our seats, I could feel eyes on me, assessing, judging. The women, in particular, cast envious eyes on Dimitri. He was a beautiful man, there was no doubt. He was nothing like any man I’d ever been remotely attracted to. Well, that was a lie. Dimitri was like a movie star, one of those villains you saw on the silver screen or in one of those cologne ads doing that man-spread in a fancy suit. He oozed sex appeal, but you could also sense that the closer you got to him, the closer you were to the flames. He’d burn you. I’d always had Olive to consider. Men like Dimitri were bad boys, indulgences that weren’t in the single-mother line-up. Not in mine, at least.

I had to remember to play my part here, to be the woman Dimitri had bought and cowed. It was the only way to get through this. I settled my face in a dull look, keeping my eyes cast down.

Dimitri's hand settled gently but possessively on my thigh under the table, a silent reassurance of our roles. He leaned in, his breath warm against my ear as he whispered, “You’re doing great, malysh.” His words, a balm to my frayed nerves, gave me the strength to continue.

I nodded slightly, focusing on the small comforts I could find: the soft murmur of conversations, the clinking of cutlery, and Dimitri’s steady presence beside me. This was only one step in the plan for my route home to my little girl. I kept my eyes on the table and away from the other women.

As dinner progressed, Rodriguez focused on Dimitri, probing him about his business and intentions. “Your brother, the pakhan. How did you convince him about this enterprise?” Rodriguez asked. “I can’t wait to hear this story. I’d been told that he’d been very set against it.”

“Miguel, I can call you Miguel, right?” Dimitri asked as he sipped his vodka. I’d already figured out that vodka was his favorite drink. He asked for the bottle right away. “Men are simple creatures, aren’t we? Money, power, sex. That’s what we like.” He shrugged. “I just had to push the right buttons with my brother and make him understand that, in the end, that’s what mattered.” Dimitri waved a hand in the air. “He’d been confused by some silly sense of morality, but that wasn’t necessary now, was it?”

Miguel laughed loudly, pounded the table, guffawed, snorted, and heaved. He was drunk by this point of the evening, not quite sloppy with it, but sauced, as my mother would have said. I couldn’t help but stare at him; thankfully, he wasn’t minding me. His whole attention was focused on Dimitri as if he’d discovered something unique.

“You,” he pointed at Dimitri. “You! You’re right!” He shouted, then turned to some of the women and pointed at them. “They’re just objects to us. Money. Some people don’t understand that. But you…” he wagged his finger. “You do!”

None of the women seemed to take offense or even look up to give him attention. I kept scanning the faces just in case I saw Beth. Not that there was anything I could do. The women continued to chat, drink, and even slump in sleep against the wall. Dimitri was not laughing or amused. He looked at Miguel with predatory interest, leaning forward toward him as if he were going to slit his throat right there at the table. “That’s right, Miguel. I do understand exactly,” he said in a silky voice.

Dimitri had been playing his part flawlessly, and his answers were smooth and calculated. I admired his ability to handle Rodriguez and keep this masquerade going. Our chairs were scooted close to each other, and I could feel the heat of his body through the sleeve of his suit coat. I wished I were closer to him. I hoped that the person Dimitri was looking for would show up so we could leave.

And then, as dessert was being served, the door to the dining room opened, and a man entered. My heart skipped a beat as Dimitri's hand tightened on my thigh. It was the man called Anton, whom Dimitri was looking for — Makarovich. The room seemed to hold its breath as he strode in, looking from Dimitri to me.

“Hey Miguel, sorry I’m late. Had something to handle.” He spun his eyes to Dimitri. “So you’re Maxim’s brother, a Volkov? Are things cool? The Bratva is in? We’re in?” he babbled.

Rodriguez slumped forward onto the table, leaning partly on an elbow and partly on one poor woman who had been unfortunate enough to be called to keep him company.

Makarovich was sweating, practically pouring off him and dripping down his forehead. I eyed him with distaste. He wasn’t a heavy man, but he was balding and was trying desperately to hang onto whatever hair he had left. He had it combed back over his head, the thready strands sticking to the skin of his skull wetly.

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