Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I'm borrowing her characters and giving them some guns (again).
Unbeta'd, unedited.
Flanked by the pair of now-familiar jet-black G-Class SUVs, Aronov's sleek, armored Mercedes sedan arrives at precisely seven.
While the deep tint of the windows obscures the details, it's obvious that Aronov's reserved yet another architectural wonder. Like his VolTerra headquarters, tonight's venue is an elaborate, Renaissance-era, rusticated stone palazzo right in the heart of the city. Finely sculpted statues and fountains ring the cobblestone drive, illuminated by warm, flickering gas lamps. Thousands and thousands of tiny lights twinkle in the gardens, glittering like diamonds against the fine layer of pristine white snow.
It's breathtaking, as beautiful as the Schönbrunn, yet more intimate in scale.
We stop beneath the grand porte cochère. Out of habit, I reach for the door to exit, but a warm hand slides over the back of mine to still me.
"Not yet, dorogaya," Aronov murmurs, and in the dark, muffled silence of the cabin, his voice is a soft, tactile caress. "There is some formality and some, how to say it… theater to such things."
My lips curve. "You want to make an entrance."
"Da, tochno." A tender, affectionate kind of pride bleeds into his expression, and his fingers thread between mine and squeeze. "Exactly."
We wait without speaking as Aronov's bodyguards and staff clear the area. It's complete overkill in terms of security. The street out front stands black and empty, cordoned off at each end of the block. Shadows prowl the roofline across the street, and down here on the ground, there's enough high-powered weaponry slung across his guards' chests to supply a small militia.
He's got better coverage than most heads of state.
Out in front, seemingly oblivious to the frigid temperatures and swirling flecks of dry, powdery snow, Dmitri flashes a hand signal to the first SUV. Markovsky and Rosalie exit a beat later, and Masen follows from the second vehicle. They move in unison toward a pair of carved double doors, currently flung wide and bracketed by a pair of attendants dressed in meticulously appointed gold and crimson finery.
"You are quiet this evening," Aronov says, pulling my knuckles to his lips. "More so than usual."
I run a lacquered nail along his jaw, rasping through the coarse, neatly trimmed beard he's still sporting. "You're just more social than me."
"Not really." Aronov kisses my knuckles again and then a third time before dragging his lips to the sensitive skin on the inside of my wrist. "I would much rather spend this evening alone with you." He shrugs. "This is simply business. You will become accustomed to such events."
"Is that so?" I say, right as Feliks appears in my periphery. Before I can say another word, my door swings open, and icy air blasts into the cabin.
Of course, my dress does absolutely nothing to block the wind.
For tonight's little soiree, I'm in an exquisite, obscenely expensive starlit dream of a dress. While little more than a few swaths of ephemeral silver organza with intricately interwoven beading, the thing somehow hugs my curves like a second skin and makes my legs go for miles. My heels are sky-high, too, so by the time I cross the burgundy carpet to meet my lover, gooseflesh pebble my skin from head to toe.
Aronov reaches for me the instant I'm in range. Like the consummate gentleman he pretends to be, he escorts me through the doors, only stopping once we're inside and next to a strikingly enameled antique steam radiator.
The heat pouring off this thing feels like heaven, and I sigh in relief.
Chuckling, Aronov rubs my forearms and biceps. "Next time, I will insist you wear a coat, especially when I take you to Davos in a few weeks."
"I told you," I say, giving him a teasing glare as I simultaneously extract my left from his grip. While the paste Alice snuck to Rosalie is supposed to be some kind of heavy-duty, stage-grade concealer, I'm not about to risk him smudging it and having to explain why there's a handprint on my upper arm. Especially not tonight. "Fur's not my thing."
Even if it's the jaw-dropping, six-figure, full-length sable that somehow found its way into the closet in my new room adjacent to his.
Scowling, Aronov tsks and mutters under his breath. "Amerikanka… slozhnaya devushka."
I almost laugh because he has no clue just how difficult I really can be.
Instead, I flash him a row of teeth as I pluck a tube of lipstick from my décolletage. That scowl vanishes immediately, and Aronov's eyes narrow, zeroing in on the valley between my breasts.
"Will you carry this for me?" I ask, tucking my lipstick – along with its carefully concealed microphone – into the inside pocket of his jacket.
Aronov cocks an arrogant, arrogant brow that does nothing to hide the amusement lurking in his features. "You turn me into your valet?"
"As you can see," I say, arching a brow of my own as I step back and sweep a hand at my excuse for a dress. The motion draws every bit of his attention. "I don't have any pockets."
"Stunning." The word punches out as his gaze rakes down my body. He lingers on both my curves and the sparkling ropes of gemstones looping my throat and wrist. Matching, fanciful chandeliers dangle from my ears. I am dripping this man's diamonds tonight, and I swear, the sight of it pleases him to no end. When he gently fingers the gigantic, flawless center stone of the cocktail ring on my right, he sucks in a shallow, shaky breath, and I don't have to be a mind reader to know what he's thinking. "Absolutely stunning."
Tilting my head, I brush his lapel and run my fingertips down the dark, silvery gray silk of his tie. It's not lost on me that we coordinate.
"Vy ochenʹ krasivyy… segodnya vecherom," I say, slowly and haltingly, and like every other time I throw a few words at him, I butcher the pronunciation.
Nonetheless, Aronov's eyes spark with instant, unbridled warmth and adoration. "You think me handsome tonight?"
"Konechno," I tell him, winking as I give his jacket a final pat. "How was that?"
"You are perfect," he says. One palm flattens against the dip in my lower back, drawing me closer, and then he leans down to whisper against the shell of my ear. "And next time, you may say ty instead of vy to me."
I frown. "That's not what Google said."
His chest rumbles against me. "It is just a difference of formality." Humming, he kisses my temple and inhales like he's breathing me in. "You, of all people in this place, have the right to speak informally to me."
"Is that right?"
Aronov's cheeks crease as he releases me, only to capture my hand in his. "Most assuredly."
Turning, I peer down the vast hall, past the stairs to the open ballroom at the end. Like the Schönbrunn, this place is a museum. Romantic frescoes cover the ceilings and walls, and priceless, colorfully woven rugs sit on top of the original ceramic flooring beneath our feet. Massive gilt and crystal chandeliers hang overhead, casting the room in a soft, welcoming glow.
Against the beautiful backdrop of ivory, crimson, and gold, dozens of sharply dressed men and sequined women mill around, all conspicuously not looking in our direction.
Aronov notices my attention. "Tonight, you will meet many people."
"Like in Vienna?" I ask, and when I glance over, I clock the shift in his demeanor. It's sharper, more focused, like a tiger stalking and gauging the weaknesses of its prey before the strike.
"Some, yes," he says as his thumb strokes across the top of my knuckles. "This is a more selective group. Some work for me. Some are in positions of influence in their respective organizations and countries. Others are… clients."
Fuck, yes.
When I adjust one of my earrings, Whitlock's quiet murmur comes through the tiny, skin-colored tab tucked deep in my ear canal. "I got you loud and clear. I'll keep monitoring until Em and Spooky hit the perimeter and then swap over. ETA twenty-three hundred."
"Clients?" I ask, ignoring the icy ball of nerves and anticipation in my gut as I watch a triplet of leggy blondes weave their way toward a grouping of dark-suited men. It's the same three women from the Schönbrunn, and tonight, decked out in tight, up-to-there, shimmery white, Snegurochka looks like a winter fantasy come to life. The man she approaches damned near drools as she threads an arm through his and whispers in his ear.
"Da, and this is an occasion where I will expect your discretion," Aronov says, and one corner of his mouth pulls up. "You will meet certain people tonight. You will hear things." He makes a non-committal sound. "Perhaps you will see things."
Nodding, I give his hand a little squeeze. "Things you consider to be private matters."
"Yes."
"I understand." I nod again, tracking Masen as he stops next to a familiar, dark-haired forty-something sporting a slick, too-easy smile. Retzos' mask cracks when he sees the younger man, but it's back up a split-second later, and he barks out a loud, boisterous laugh and slaps Masen on the back in greeting. "My role is to be arm candy."
"No." Aronov's reply comes instantly, and when I look up in question, he tips his head toward Rosalie, where she stands next to Markovsky, laughing and flirting with a pair of salt-and-pepper older men. Draped in skin-tight emerald green and with plumped, blood-red lips, she's a hot, sultry seduction to Snegurochka's winter fantasy, and the two men eye her like she's something to eat. "Your friend, Rosalie, she is what you call arm candy, a trophy, a pretty, voluptuous bauble to show off and… eventually to discard."
Oh, I can't wait to tell her this shit.
She is going to be pissed.
Aronov kisses my hair, this time almost absently. "You occupy a far different position," he says, and something in his voice shifts and hardens when he looks out across the crowd below. "And apparently, the wolves are already aware of this."
"What do you mean?"
"Watch them," he says, subtly gesturing. "They pretend not to stare because they are curious yet smart enough not to offend openly." Aronov chuckles once more, and it's a deeper growl, cut with darkness and brutality, promising nothing but violence. "They will want to know how to use you against me."
My eyes widen, and I startle like he expects me to. "I thought these were your friends." I swallow and grip his hand tighter. "They sound… ruthless."
"Indeed," he replies, bringing my hand to his mouth. "Recall, I am more so."
I shake my head at him. "I don't get it. Why do you throw these things?"
Aronov's shoulders roll in a loose, seemingly lazy shrug. "To make a point. To play the game. To let them see me." His expression sharpens even more. "There are whispers that I have become inattentive, distracted even." He spits that last part out. "Tonight, I will rectify this. I will ensure there are no more misunderstandings."
A chill races down my spine.
"Now, come, my love," he says, soft, purring, and calculating, as he tugs on my hand to lead me down the stairs. "Come play with me."
Unsurprisingly, dinner is a gastronomic marvel. I lose count of the number of courses, but the ornate gilt and enamel clock on the wall chimes half past nine by the time the server carves the Châteaubriand table-side and tops it with foie gras and some kind of black truffle sauce. Whatever it is, it's rich and earthy, and paired with the aged, deep garnet Barolo filling my glass, like everything else tonight, it tastes like magic.
As the servers clear the plates for the dessert courses, I watch one of the blondes approach Masen, where he sits at the opposite end of our table, leaning back in his chair with one ankle lazily hitched over the opposite knee. To the casual observer, he's an impenetrable wall of boredom and ennui, but I know better. He's as aware of me as I am of him, and every time Aronov touches me, his fingertips drum across the back of the adjacent chair.
Snegurochka stops right behind him.
"Edward… ya iskala tebya," she murmurs, slowly dragging a set of long manicured nails across the tops of his shoulders. When Masen doesn't react, she just laughs, low and throaty, and snakes her arms around his neck from behind. Pale, white-blonde hair falls like a curtain against his chest and tickles his cheek, and as she whispers in his ear, her tongue darts out to lick his skin in blatantly sexual invitation.
My fingers itch, and for a second, I legitimately debate just how good my knife-throwing skills are. At this distance, I'm fairly certain I could take out the hand playing with his tie. Or an eye.
And yes, I'm perfectly aware of the hypocrisy here.
Still bored as ever, Masen's mouth mashes into a hard line. "Net."
Like in Vienna, the blonde makes a pouty show of it and takes his earlobe between her teeth. "Nu… pochemu zhe ty ne khochesh' menya?"
Masen lets out an annoyed sigh and drags her hand away from his tie. Twisting toward her, just enough to escape her bite, he levels the woman a flat, unamused glare. "Potomu chto ty menya ne interesuyesh'."
Most women would take the hint, but I'll give her this. If nothing else, she's fucking persistent.
"Davay, poydem so mnoy," she says, scratching the nape of his neck before suggestively sliding a palm down his chest. When her head dips once more, we make eye contact across the length of the table. Her baby blue gaze skips to Aronov standing off to the side, where he's talking to one of his directors, before returning to me. As her lips move against Masen's ear, she stares at me, smiling a sensual, hedonistic smile that sets my teeth on edge. "Day mne tebya trakhnut'. Obeshchayu, tebe ponravitsya."
"Tanya, khvatit. Ya skazal net," Masen says, now firm and ice cold, as he grabs her wrist and yanks her off him. "Ukhodi."
Almost on cue, Aronov flicks a hand to dismiss the husky, balding fifty-something who he introduced earlier as Valery and who supposedly runs one of Aronov's specialized equipment divisions. I didn't catch everything that was said, but fat beads of sweat dot the man's forehead, despite the chill of the room, and as he shoves his balled-up hands deep inside his pockets, they shake in what I can only call terror.
Aronov slides into the chair next to mine, and when he looks at me, something dark and almost feral moves in his eyes. Without looking away, he taps his forefinger against the table and nods to one of his guards hovering a few feet away.
"Feliks, pochemu by tebe ne vyvesti yego otsyuda?" he says, smiling. "Ubedis' chto on ponyal i potom pust' ukhodit."
He says it pleasantly, too, almost cheerfully. Like it's nothing at all for him to order a beatdown on one of his own. I don't know what Valery's done, but when I register the responding, sadistic gleam in Feliks' eyes as he ducks his chin in curt agreement, I certainly don't envy him.
I arch a brow when Aronov doesn't offer to translate, but I don't press him on it, nor do I watch Feliks as he follows Valery out of the room. Instead, I motion toward the safer topic – the scantily-clad, sulking blonde currently sashaying away from Mason.
Undeterred by his rejection, Tanya's hips sway as she walks, and as she passes by a pair of men – clients, from the looks of them, both already half-drunk on Aronov's wine – that pout instantly disappears. She stops when they call her over. Sidling up to the one closest, she rubs his shoulder and then lets out a peal of laughter when he playfully smacks her ass and grabs her by the waist.
Without warning, the man pulls her roughly into his side and buries his face in the crook of her neck. His grip shifts, sliding up her ribcage to cup her breast in a move that's nowhere close to being appropriate for this kind of event. But she just laughs again and pets his chest in invitation.
"So, what's that all about?" I angle my head to Masen and then once again to the blonde.
Chuffing out a laugh, Aronov swirls his wine and noses it. "The girl simply offered Edward her… services," he says, draining the remainder of his glass. The second it hits the table, a server in starched black and white appears, bottle in hand. "Edward declined."
I feign surprise. "I've seen her before. Those others, too." I glance at the two other blondes, where they're approaching a separate grouping of men. I'm pretty sure one of them is a very high-level political advisor in the UK. "They were at your party in Vienna."
A small, amused smile plays across Aronov's lips, but all he does is hum an acknowledgment.
"Misha?" I ask, and this time, I put just enough bite in my tone to let him know I'm not stupid, nor is he getting away with non-answers, at least not with me.
Aronov's shoulders shake, and beneath the fine, ivory brocade tablecloth, his palm finds my bare knee. "It is nothing, lyubimaya. The girl, she belongs to Kaius."
I still, and even though it's not exactly surprising, my stomach sinks.
"Belongs," I say, and this time when I look at her, I pick up the subtle tells I missed – or maybe just ignored – before.
There's a slight discoloration to the skin on her back, a splotchiness that reminds me of the concealer that took me so long to blend. Tanya's too thin in places where she should have muscle. Her posture's off, too, like she's having to fight to keep herself from caving inward. And then those eyes of hers – that bright, bright baby blue – are too old for her face, and they turn distant and flat when she thinks no one's watching.
Fuck, and now, I feel like shit.
I run the pad of my finger around the rim of my wineglass. "What exactly does belongs mean?"
Aronov's eyes sweep the room, quickly pinpointing Koshmarin in his slick, designer suit. Tonight, his hair's swept back off his face, and under the warm glow of the chandelier, those Hollywood features of his look as though they've been carved from granite.
It's amazing how beautiful evil can be sometimes.
It's also amazing just how badly I want to damage him again, and it takes real fucking effort not to smile when he moves his shoulder and winces.
The hand on my knee slides up my thigh, and Aronov flirts with my hem, drawing my attention back to him.
"Do not be so surprised," he murmurs. "Hers, and the others'..." I follow his gaze as it flits back to the other two blondes and then to a handful of brunettes and redheads, all stunningly attractive and strategically scattered around the room. "Theirs is an occupation as old as time."
Except it's not exactly an occupation when it's not their choice, now, is it?
I don't say that, though.
"They are young, beautiful trinkets," he goes on, oblivious to the angry hammer of my heart. "And they know how to please a man with their bodies." Those wandering fingers of his creep even higher, and I wonder if I'm going to have to break them right now. "Some of my associates enjoy such luxuries, so…" His shoulders rise and fall in casual disinterest. "The girls serve a purpose at these kinds of gatherings, and as long as they are useful, they are well taken care of."
Until you kill them and throw them in some goddamned dumpster in the back alleys of Naples.
After they've been beaten and raped and sold off like fucking cattle.
Like those Czech girls and the dozens that came before them.
Despite the beauty of the room, all I can see are those godawful images Eli sent over so many weeks ago – the plum-black bruises covering every inch of their bodies, even the bottoms of their feet – and the blood racing through my veins sings a sweet, violent melody in my ears.
This time, when Aronov's fingers continue their meandering path toward the juncture of my thighs, I grab them and squeeze. "I see."
At my right, there's a sharp intake of air. I look over, and whatever I expected to see, this isn't it.
Aronov's eyes dance and glitter in sheer, unadulterated delight. "I love it when you are jealous."
You have got to be kidding me.
I glare at him, and there is nothing pretend about it. "What makes you think I'm jealous?"
"You are," he says, breathless, as he stares at me in rapt fascination. "And it is intoxicating to me. I have not experienced such a reaction from a woman in…" His eyes screw shut. "So many years."
Because you're a deranged fucking psychopath.
Aronov leans over and runs his nose along my jaw, uncaring of any who might be watching. "I assure you that I have not partaken of their offerings. If I had, they would not be here," he whispers against my cheek. Under the tablecloth, he flips my hand over and slips his fingers between mine. "I would never insult you in this way, my love." His lips touch my forehead, then my temple and hairline. "These girls, they are nothing to me, here merely to provide entertainment for guests. It is just how such things are done."
I swear, I'm going to vomit in this man's lap. Or kill him. Maybe both.
"I don't like it," I say, gritting my teeth. I inhale a slow, deep breath before I do something rash that would jeopardize Cullen's extraction and end this whole thing too soon. My chest stretches the delicate fabric of my dress, but it's enough of a distraction to uncloud the furious haze creeping into my vision, and I force myself to add the rest. "But I understand. This is one of those unpleasant aspects of your business that you warned me about."
His thumb ghosts across the back of my hand. "Precisely."
Debating on this next part, I swallow, but after that disaster with his assistant-cum-mistress, I'm not about to leave this open for his interpretation. "But can I ask you for something?"
"Of course," he says immediately. "You may ask me for anything."
"Make sure no one hurts them."
Aronov's entire face softens, and he releases my hand only to gently trace the low neckline of my dress, lingering when he approaches the left side of my chest. "Your heart is tender still."
If that's what it takes to convince him, so fucking be it.
I nod. "Yes, it is."
"Kak ya mogu tebe otkazat'?" he says, almost to himself, and then sighs. "I will make it so for you."
When I finally gift him a seemingly forgiving smile, Aronov leans in again and cups my face. "After this nonsense is finally over, I would take my time with you tonight." His thumb finds my lower lip.
Playing my part, I suck on it and run my tongue over the tip in open suggestion.
Aronov's breathing hitches, but then he growls and gives me a playful, devious little wink. "And perhaps we shall see how wet I can make you before you start to beg."
Ugh.
Releasing him, I roll my eyes. "I think we both know you'll be the one begging. Maybe I'll even let you come."
Aronov stills for a split second, but then his palm abruptly claps against the table, and he throws his head back, belting out a loud, joyful laugh. In my periphery, I watch dozens of faces freeze in mute surprise. Across the table, Masen's fingertips drum a tight, compact rhythm against the adjacent chair, but there's a dark, vicious kind of professional appreciation in his expression when our eyes meet.
"Good fucking move, Swan." Whitlock lets out a low, approving whistle in my ear. "But can you get away for a second? Everything's moving forward fine at the estate, but there's a surprise heading your way."
Fuck.
Ignoring the punch in my gut, I seek out Rosalie, still parked next to Markovsky two tables over. She peeks at me over the top of her glass and dips her chin before tilting her head toward the back of the room and the long hallway leading to the facilities.
"Now, I'd like to freshen up before dessert," I say to Aronov, sweetly touching my lips to his cheek before rising. When he stands to join me, I let a hint of the darkness he craves leach into my expression and run my nails along the hard line of his jaw. "And you need to go be your ruthless self and put the fear of God into these…" I wave at the room and all the carefully diverted eyes. "Friends of yours."
"Beautiful witch," he says as he presses a fervent, almost desperate kiss to the center of my palm. "Kak zhe ya lyublyu tebya…"
.
.
.
Notes:
Like some other countries (e.g. Germany, Austria, Spain, Poland, Ukraine, India, etc), Russians traditionally wear wedding rings on the right hand instead of the left (e.g., Americas, UK, France, Italy, etc). Diamond engagement rings are a relatively new phenomenon borrowed from the West. Still, you can assume that someone with Aronov's means and worldliness would undoubtedly consider one for an American partner in particular. You can infer that's where his head went at that moment early on in the chapter.
Russian (transliterated):
Dorogaya: term of endearment, roughly darling, dear, sweetheart, etc
Da, tochno: Yes, exactly
Amerikanka… slozhnaya devushka: American (fem.)… difficult/complicated woman
Vy ochenʹ krasivyy… segodnya vecherom: you are very handsome tonight
Konechno: Of course
Ty… Vy: like many languages, Russian has formal and informal "you". Ty is informal, used with family, friends, etc, and Vy is used formally with folks you don't know well or those in positions of authority
Edward, ya iskala tebya: Edward, I've been looking for you
Net: No
Nu… pochemu zhe ty ne khochesh' menya: Why don't you want me?
Potomu chto ty menya ne interesuyesh': Because you don't interest me
Davay, poydem so mnoy… Day mne tebya trakhnut'. Obeshchayu, tebe ponravitsya: Come on, come with me… Let me fuck you. I promise you'll like it
Tanya, khvatit. Ya skazal net… Ukhodi: Tanya, enough. I said no… Leave
Feliks, pochemu by tebe ne vyvesti yego otsyuda? Ubedis' chto on ponyal i potom pust' ukhodit: Feliks, why don't you escort him out? Make sure he understands, and then let him go
Lyubimaya: term of endearment, meaning love/beloved
Kak ya mogu tebe otkazat': How could I refuse you?
Kak zhe ya lyublyu tebya: How I love you
Glossary:
Porte cochère: borrowed from French, literally "coach gateway". This is a covered entrance large enough for vehicles to pass through
Sable: a species of marten primarily inhabiting forest areas in Russia. Sable fur has been highly valued since the Middle Ages. Russian sables are generally considered to be the most luxurious on the market, and, depending on the quality, length, etc, coats can command extremely high prices (well into six figures)