Page 31 of Sinful Promise

She lifts her dinner tray, stands, and collects mine as I finish eating.

“There’s a kitchen area?” she asks.

“Up front.”

She nods and walks toward the kitchen. Alex catches me staring at her behind and busts my ass about it.

Dasha busies herself in the kitchen and returns to pick up after Alex. She disappears again, and Alex and I give each other a questioning look.

“I thought she was a principessa,” he whispers. “Why is she acting like a scullery maid?”

“I don’t know, but we need to find out.”

Things are not adding up. Her behavior is not what one would expect from a mafia princess. She doesn’t wear the clothes and jewelry, for one thing. Her only ring is a thin gold band with a peridot, lighter than her eyes. The dress and sneakers she wore to her wedding were more appropriate for a picnic.

Perplexing. Mafia queens are drenched in finery. The dress she was wearing when I found her was disappointing, even by my standards. I’m no fashionista, but I know a designer dress when I see one, and hers was not couture by any stretch of the imagination.

Ratmim’s bride is unexpected, to say the least. Her sneakers indicate she’s a woman who either likes to rebel or is very practical. Things are still not adding up.

I assumed her family was wealthy and powerful if she was promised to Ratmim. Could I have been wrong? Could this be some elaborate trap? Is she playing us?

I don’t think so. I think back to our first encounter. I stumbled upon the church at the exact moment she was making her getaway. That wasn’t a trap. This is a coincidence. She didn’t seek us out.

Who is Dasha, and how did she wind up at the church of my enemy?

13

DASHA

Ireturn to Alex, who’s sitting in his seat. He’s wiping his fingers on the little towelettes that came with the silverware packet on the serving tray. He raises his eyebrows in surprise when I dutifully reach for his tray and an empty soda can.

Alex murmurs his thanks, but he doesn’t seem pleased by my consideration. I return to the tiny kitchen. It reminds me of the kind little kids might play with in a daycare center.

I’m comforted by the small space nonetheless. The kitchen is where I feel at home and safe from scrutinizing eyes. Alone with my ingredients, I can make creative meals without men harping at me. Papa and my brothers can’t cook, and they don’t bother me when I’m in the kitchen. To me, an afternoon making dough and putting together a pot pie was a mini vacation.

I wash the trays in the little sink with a sponge and soap from a tiny dispenser and dry them with a linen towel. From the light smell of bleach embedded in the cotton fibers, they are professionally cleaned by a service.

I open the cute little cubbies, find the compartment with other trays, and stack the three I washed inside. I look around the tiny area and notice not one, but two mini fridges. I open one and peer inside. It’s stocked with drinks and liquor. I have no idea what Prosecco is, but there is also a bottle of champagne, soft drinks, and bottled water. I close the door and open the other refrigerator. It is loaded with more food. How much are we to eat? There are cold-cut sandwiches on French bread and a tray of cut cheeses, meat, and fruit. I’ve never been to a fancy party, but I know that the tray of meat and mixed delicacies is called a charcuterie board. These men are obviously incredibly wealthy and versed in the ways of the world and don’t think twice about blowing tons of money on fancy stuff. I’m having one hell of an adventure. I find Roman interesting, and if I can befriend this Irina or Alex on the boat, maybe one of them will help me get away. I close the fridge door with a soft click.

“Everything okay, Dasha?” Roman calls over the whistling of the plane.

“Just fine.” I quickly pull a bottle of water out of the electric cooler to buy more time. I’m also thirsty. It must be the altitude. I remember hearing my brothers talking about how to hydrate when they fly. I open it, drink some, then peek my head around the thin wall into the cabin area. The men are whispering to one another, but I can’t make out the words. They peer back at me with the inquisitiveness of a kitten.

I stand in the aisle, where they can see me. What do they think I’m going to do, overtake them with my bobby pins? I down my drink and slide the empty bottle into the garbage can on the wall. I clear my throat and return to my seat. I reach for my seatbelt, and a large hand covers mine, startling me.

Tingles run up my arm at Roman’s touch. My eyes lock with his, which are now a dark shade of blue.

My heart pumps faster. He’s not pale like many Russians. He’s different, and I find him attractive. My cheeks must be turning fifty shades of pink.

“You don’t need to fasten that. The captain will tell us if we need it due to bumpy weather or upon landing. You can go to the back and sleep. I promise, you’ll be safe.”

“I am tired,” I admit. He removes his warm hand, and I suddenly feel cold. Must be a draft in the plane.

“Okay, I’ll rest.” I stand and tug my blouse over the top of my jeans to have something to do with my hands. He makes me nervous. I’ve never been around a man close to my age for this many hours, and certainly not without supervision. Hell, I don’t even know if Roman is married. My heart skips a beat. If he’s taken, then…

I glance down at his large hands. He’s genetically gifted, a tall man, over a meter tall and then some. I’m short, and if I didn’t know how to swim, my butt would be an anchor.

I go to the back of the plane and enter the room. It has the same yellowish lights, a TV, cupboards, a built-in desk, a large bed, and nightstands. I am shocked but delighted. The bed does look inviting. There’s no reason I can’t lock the door and get an hour of sleep. I flip the lock on the door with a smile on my face. I’ve had more independence being a captive than living at home.

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