Page 83 of Brutal Promise

Have I been played? Why wouldn’t he tell me? I bet he’s hacked my email account and probably tracking my phone.

It’s pointless to tell her I never got the email and blame Dmitry. She thinks we’re a loving couple. She is a Volkov, and her loyalty will always be to her husband and his family. I’m just the outsider.

I let the store associate know I’m taking the dress, and she zips it into a long nylon bag. I say nothing in response to Anya’s bombshell news, but she has to know it was a surprise.

Instead, we chat about the weather and traffic as we return to the house. The sisterly bond we were forming is sadly broken. There’s no point lashing out at her. She’s my source on the inside. Still, I’ve never felt so alone. I’m in a new country, and I’m not sure who to trust. Their bratva is a fucking secret society where the men rule, and the women follow blindly.

Not this woman, I tell myself.

I’m relieved when Anya leaves with her guard. Erik takes the dress upstairs to my room. Anger wells in my chest as I pace in the kitchen. A heavyset man wearing an apron is stirring something on the stove. He must be our chef, Jon. The smell of rosemary potatoes and beef makes me nauseous. Great, I’m so upset I’m sick.

“What’s the matter, ma’am?” Charlotte asks as she makes dinner rolls.

“Nothing.” I bristle. “I’ll take care of it.”

If marriage is nothing more than a glorified prison sentence, I need to show the warden who the boss is.

28

DMITRY

It’s dark when I arrive at the house. The cold air settles in for the night as Milan and I enter the house. We shed our heavy clothing in the coat room. I texted Izzy earlier and didn’t hear from her. Anya said they had a great time. I knew a day in the city would make my little bird happy.

I check my phone and see a message from Kirill. He tells me Alena’s father claims there is an ongoing argument between Alexsei and his wife. They’ve had separate rooms for some time. This is interesting, trouble in paradise. Kirill will email me pictures from the private Catholic school and the Moretti children who attended it. I return the phone to my suit pocket.

I can smell prime rib cooking and drop by the kitchen. Oddly the staff is unusually quiet. I glance at the French chef, Jon, and nod. He gives me a quick nod back.

“Izzy?”

“Upstairs, Mr. Volkov,” Charlotte wistfully replies, pointing up. She sets the table and busies herself, making the table perfect. I bound up the steps, two at a time.

Our bedroom door is closed.

I’m miffed. What kind of game is Izzy playing? She knew I was on my way.

I cautiously open the door to our bedroom and am immediately pelted with shoes flying at my head with precision and speed. I duck and deflect them with my hands and arms.

“How dare you!” she yells.

“What?”

I appear to be safe now as she’s run out of shoes.

“You took away the job I wanted. How could you?”

“It was too dangerous for you to take. Besides, bratva wives don’t work. I thought I made that clear.” My voice is deep and authoritative.

“Clear? I’ll tell you what is clear. You lied to me. You spied on me. It’s the only way you would have known.”

She’s right. I am to blame.

Fuck.

“We were leaving. It’s better to have a polite refusal saying you’re out of the country and leaving your options open, isn’t it?” I manipulate the situation.

“You never intended to stay in New York. You sabotaged my chance to have a life after this fake marriage is over!” she hollers loud enough for everyone downstairs to hear.

“Isabella. Enough!” I yell too, but with adon’t fuck with mean edge to my voice. She freezes and looks at me like a startled deer. I need her to calm the fuck down and listen to me.

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