Page 71 of Brutal Promise

“How much longer do we have to drive?”

“We’ll be there soon.”

Within minutes we’ve turned off the main road and pulled up to a gatehouse. The driver rolls down his window and speaks to an armed guard. In less time than I can say open sesame, the gate magically opens, and we’re driving through what looks like a compound. It’s dark, but I can make out a massive four-car garage and outer buildings. We come around a bend, and I spot a two-story mansion painted a pale yellow Mediterranean color. Lit sconces adorn the front of the house. Spotlights in the yard shine on the walls. The walkways are illuminated with lights embedded in the pavers. A picture of this could easily be on the cover of a design magazine.

Our limo slowly circles to the back of the home and stops before a set of double doors. If they were open, I swear we could drive right inside. This door must be for deliveries, drivers, and hired help. Parked in the surrounding turnabout area are black SUVs and expensive sports cars. If the housekeeper is driving that Ferrari, I’m changing professions.

The driver jumps out and opens our doors. Dmitry speaks to him in Russian while he gets our bags from the trunk.

I hear the door to the house swing open. A tall man approaches.

“I’m Milan. Nice to meet you,” he says, extending a heavily tattooed hand. Dressed all in back and looking like Lurch from the Addams Family, he’s intimidating. I can see why Dmitry uses him for protection.

“Izzy.” I take Milan’s hand, and we shake. I make sure to keep my hand firm. I tell myself I have to fake it until I make it, even if it’s an act. I cannot show fear, so I force a smile. Dmitry is his priority, but I need him on my side too. I’m sure there are no secrets between them because they’re always together.

“Great.” Dmitry claps his hands together as if the meeting is adjourned and walks toward the house with Milan by his side, speaking in Russian.

I look around but can see nothing in the darkness. The cold air tickles my nose. The men are way ahead of me. I run to catch up.

The first room we enter is the kitchen. It’s warm and spacious and looks recently renovated, judging from the stainless-steel appliances. It must cost a fortune to power the huge refrigerator and freezer. Electricity is not cheap in Europe.

Rich mahogany cabinets and creamy-colored marble countertops give the place a homey feel. Copper bottom pots and skillets hang above the marble island. I could live in this kitchen. The walk-in pantry alone is big enough for a pull-out sofa.

Martha Stewart would be impressed. I still think she’s a jailbird, but whatever. One can’t live in New York City and not see the irony.

Milan pushes some buttons on the Italian coffee machine and pours a coffee for Dmitry. They will be up late talking over matters I’m excluded from, and it’s okay. Less is more, right?

Dmitry puts down his coffee cup and approaches me.

“Take off your coat. Let me show you to our room so you can get settled. I’ll give you the tour tomorrow.”

“Okay.” I hand him my coat, and he passes it to Milan. He takes my hand and walks me into another room and up a sweeping staircase to the second floor. We take the steps together. The walls are pristine, having been just painted. At the top of the stairs, I follow him down a wide corridor with flickering sconces lighting our way. The ambiance of the soft lighting is relaxing.

“Does anyone else live here?”

“No, Erik and Milan live in the carriage house on the property, and someone is always guarding the gate. I have the house under surveillance.” He reaches out and opens an ornate wooden door. “This way.” We enter a large room with a king-size bed that dominates the room.

“Wow,” I murmur. I take in the matching bedspread and covers that coordinate with the curtains on the windows.

“This way,” he continues, walking into another room. It’s a large bathroom with dual shower heads and a bench seat large enough for four people. It has a separate room for the toilet and bidet. We walk past the side-by-side sinks and into a closet as big as the bedroom. The walls are lined with shelves and drawers, too many to count.

Designer suits hang from a rack with plenty of room for more. I’m sure they’re in my size. My eyes drift from the floor-to-ceiling mirror to the shoe rack and all the red-bottom shoes. He must like me in Louboutin shoes to have them here and in New York. The man has excellent taste and knows fashion.

One wall is lined with shelves filled with purses in every color. I recognize some of the bags like Prada, Gucci, and Louis Vuitton. At the top, where I can’t reach, are vintage hat boxes and framed black and white images of Audrey Hepburn.

In the middle of the room sits a chaise lounge next to a marble-covered island. He opens one of the many drawers and says, “This is for jewelry.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Oh, it is. We’ll get to that tomorrow. My closet is over there.” He nods to the opposite side, and I see another closet similar to mine but full of dark suits and men’s shoes. He’s impeccable with his taste. “Do you have the credit card I gave you?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“Good. You’ll use it. Anya will take you around and help you find a wedding dress. Spare no expense. You will be the trendsetter in town.”

I look back at the way we came.

“This is all connected?” I ask, feeling overwhelmed by the sheer size of our bedroom suite.

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