Page 59 of Merciless Queen

Ducking my head, I pretend not to see her shock, and squeeze the black metal handle until the front door pops open.

“Get inside.”

She hesitates in the doorway, glancing over the landscape, but only for a second. Another feeling of dread creeps up because she’s following alongtoowell.

Why?

Even if,until now, New York was my one and only trip outside of Russia, it was enough of an experience to teach me I never again wanted to leave my beloved country. During the winter, it’s like nowhere else exists with the fluffy snow, chilly temperatures, and homely vibes. Jogging the trails around our home while taking in the eerily silent forest that’s crowded with bare trees trimmed by snow, was my favourite activity to escape from Papa. In the summertime, Moscow is so bright and lit up. People come alive, the city’s events are rambunctious, the sun vivid and temperatures balmy. I loved being in the city and among strangers during those times, much to Papa’s chagrin.

As the saying goes, home really is where the heart is. And my heart is presently lodged deep in Russia, inside my mansion. In the ancient castle that might seem dark and depressing to others, and once could be considered as such when Papa was roaming the hallways, but it’s now my oasis. My ultimate protection.

New York, in comparison, felt overwhelming and underwhelming all at the same time. The city was alive, but theRossi mansion in the Hamptons seemed dead. Even overlooking the vast, beautiful ocean, the property felt too open and unprotected and was not for me.

So why is everything about Zeno’s home appealing? In many ways, it’s more open than Rossi’s oceanfront property The lands are immeasurable to the gaze, with no forest or water providing any sense of a barrier.

At the same time, it’s that openness making the land appealing too. The grass is so perfectly manicured, I’d believe the groundskeeper measured every blade before cutting. It’s bright, an emerald green, nearly the shade of Zeno’s eyes. The villa’s exterior is light in colour, and its size and shape is somehow a balance between my home and that of Erico Rossi’s. Unlike the wall of windows Rossi’s mansion has or the thick brick of mine, the upper floor boasts moderate windows, all framed by arches. It’s two stories high, making the place much smaller than my mansion, but even without being inside, I can tell it’s not in a way that makes the place cramped.

To the right, the pool is marvellous. Olympic-sized, stretching almost the length of the house, filled with a light shade of clear water. At one end, a small water fountain surrounded by rocky built-in seating pours more water into the pool.

Zeno’s home is ethereal in a way that even beats my beloved Russia—a betrayal to consider.

Even the front door is nice. Wooden with metal filigree laid overtop, and the same metal creating the large black handle that Zeno squeezes before opening.

“Get inside,” he demands.

I stare at him for a beat, seeking through his shutdown expression for the man who admitted I’m a better Pakhan than Papa. I’d like to think he was bullshitting me, but he stated ittoo matter-of-factly, too genuinely, and I don’t know how to feel about that.

Despite every instinct to ignore his order, I push through my hesitation and step inside the house, onto a tan marble floor, almost the exact shade of the villa’s exterior. With my back facing Zeno, I allow myself to smile. By now, he’s bound to be going crazy trying to figure out why I’m playing along so well. Why I have from the get-go and allowed him to get me inside a vehicle, a plane, and then another vehicle. If I was in his place, the need to know would be driving me insane because no captive, especially the leader of a rival mob, would accept this treatment without a greater plan.

Merely thinking about my “greater plan” makes the back of my neck tingle. Shortly after Papa’s death, when I started my bid to prove to the Bratva that I was worthy of taking over, Lev had the idea to imbed trackers in us all, especially me. Given my role, I’d be the one most targeted, whether by Papa’s crew or outsiders, and the tracking device in my neck ensures I’ll be easily found.

If I know Lev and Anastasia, they’re working on a retrieval plan this second while waiting on Dimitri to return from Canada. It’s now a matter of remaining alive for as long as it takes them to come, but if Zeno was telling the truth and is not planning to off me, we have more time. How much more, who knows, but it might be enough. Why would I fight and risk getting shot dead by one of his soldiers when I can play the broken queen, as he called me, all before turning around and playing his own game?

Checkmate.When my army gets here, I won’t make the same mistake twice.

Zeno will get a bullet to his head, that I silently vow to us both. This will be over. Whoever takes up his role will undoubtedly target the Bratva, but I’ll happily accept warbecause at least then, I’ll have played a part, rather than being the scapegoat for Papa’s past transgressions.

The foyer is small by a mansion’s standards. In the centre is a dark wooden table with a small statue of what looks like to be Venus, the Roman goddess equivalent of Aphrodite. Beyond the table, the space opens up to two staircases, both leading to a landing above. Both are a deep wood, like the table, with a light tile backing.

But what really takes my breath away is the unbridled sun raining through the skylights in the ceiling. It’s so natural, so bright, a beam casts right over the statue of Venus.

I’m so busy studying the area, I miss the black blur that rushes toward us until it’s too late and it’s barreling into me, knocking me into Zeno’s hard chest. He catches me, one arm around my waist, reminding me of when we were dancing and he held me.

Shying away from the memory, I all but shove away as a mini-monster stands on hind legs, large paws balancing on my hips as a rapidly wagging short tail whooshes back and forth with excitement. Ramrod straight ears, easily the height of my hand, make the rest of its head seem smaller, but it’s cute. The dog’s head tips back, its tongue hanging to the side in what looks like a smile.

I can’t help but return the grin and pet the dog. Its short fur is silky and gentle to the palm, and can’t recall the last time I was around an animal of any sort.

At eight-years-old, I begged Papa for a dog, and he denied me. A couple years later, I tried for a cat, figuring the gentle and quiet creature would be better. That was also a no-go, but I didn’t stop trying, and at fifteen, I asked for a Russkiy Toy dog and pleaded to his loyalist side. That having a Russian breed inside the house would be appealing to eventual suitors and the dog being no larger than a Chihuahua would mean its tiny sizewould keep it out of his way. That day, he screamed his denial and I finally stopped asking. For anything, not only a pet.

Zeno snaps his fingers. “Venus, get down, girl.”

My gaze drifts to the statue on the nearby table.Ah.

“No, it’s fine,” I murmur, and for once, I’m telling the truth. I shrug away from him when realizing my back is still pressed to his front, and bend slightly, stroking beneath her jaw with my cuffed hands the best I’m able to. To the dog, I say, “Hey, girl.”

She does a happy circle in response and presses harder into my hand. I can’t help but smile, even momentarily forgetting everything wrong in life right now, and look toward Zeno, expecting some sort of positivity while I give attention to his dog. Instead, he’s scowling, jaw clenched tight. He reaches by me to gain Venus’ attention, who gives it for only a quick few seconds before she’s heading to me again.

He whistles and jerks his head to the side hallway, and her training takes over. I’d like to say her eyes indicate a sense of sadness, and her tail stops whipping back and forth as she obeys, her paws making nearly silent clicks along the tile as she walks away.

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