11
IVAN
“No.”
I’m not often stunned, but hearing my house manager defy a direct order is stunning. There's no other way to put it.
“Excuse me?”
Niles lifts his chin. “I said… I said no, sir. I respect you, Mr. Pushkin. Deeply. But I will not work for that woman.”
I know he remembers Francia’s name. Niles never forgets a damn thing. So if he's not using her name, it's for a very good reason. Probably because saying it three times might summon her like Beetlejuice.
While I was negotiating with Francia, talking to Mikhail, and leaving Cora's ring with Kieran, Yasha called to fill Niles in on the last twenty-four hours. Apparently, the man took the news of Francia's betrayal about as well as the rest of us.
I sigh. “If I could have Cora back here right now, I’d…”
Well, I’d lock her in my room and never let her out. I’d tangle her in my sheets and wrap her in my arms and we’d never come up for air. Niles would have full run of the mansion. He’d never have to take care of me again because I’d be extremely well cared for.
But instead of all that, I say simply, “This is what I have to do to make things right.”
His teeth click together so hard the soft line of his jaw quivers. “She betrayed Ms. Cora. This woman you’re bringing in here hurt my mistress.” His face flushes. He’s embarrassed by his own devotion to Ms. Cora, but that doesn’t stop him. “I won’t lift a finger to serve anyone who hurt Ms. Cora. That woman could be on fire and I wouldn’t bother to spit on her.”
“Holy shit,” I snort, biting back a laugh. “And I thought what you said about Konstantin Sokolov after his first visit here was bad.”
Niles’ hesitant smirk dissolves into a deep frown. “That man hung his jacket on my head like I was a coat rack. When I corrected him, he apologized with a one-dollar bill. They can both share a room in hell.”
Niles knew in two minutes what it took my father until… well, until never to realize: the Sokolovs are not to be trusted.
I know he’s once again right about Francia.
But that doesn’t change what has to be done.
“I don’t want to deal with Francia in my house any more than the rest of you. I’m the one who has to fucking marry her. If she is ever on fire, I’m probably the one who lit the match.”
His brow furrows in concern. “There has to be a way out of it. You deserve better than her. You deserve…”
His voice trails off, but we both know what he was going to say.
Cora.
I’m flattered he thinks so. The trouble is, after the fuck-ups I’ve made the last couple days, I’m not so sure Cora deserves me.
She deserves safety. Protection. Things I can no longer offer her.
“What any of us may or may not deserve doesn’t matter. Francia is moving in today. That is the decision I made. Now, I need you and everyone else to figure out how to make it work.”
Niles stiffens. I see his sense of loyalty fighting against his honor. He really might rather quit outright than serve Francia.
Then, finally, his stiff posture relaxes just a fraction of an inch. “I’ll do my best, sir.”
“Your best has been good enough so far.” I clap him on the shoulder and turn towards the door. “Help her get settled and—”
“She can’t stay in Cora’s room,” Niles interrupts. “She can live in this house if you allow her to, but I will not put her in my mistress’s room. Not after what she has done.”
His loyalty is a testament. To Cora’s influence, but also to the man himself. The old coot will have a home in my Bratva for as long as he wants it.
“She’ll sleep in the East wing,” I agree. “I’ll leave it to you to choose her room.”
Finally, Niles shows a sign of amusement. Whatever he has planned for Francia, I know she won’t like it.
But all work and no play isn’t good for my household staff.
I’ll let them take their vengeance where they can.
* * *
I make sure I’m not around when Francia arrives. I hear the crunch of wheels on the pavement outside and the shuffle of movement deep in the house, but I stay in my office. She can carry her own ass across the threshold. Fuck knows I’m not going to do it.
The only time I’ll carry Francia anywhere is to an exit. Preferably in a body bag.
As the minutes tick past, my fingers itch to do something. To stay busy. I want to text Yasha about anything he may have found out about Marcus St. Clair in the ninety minutes since we spoke, but I know it’s too soon for that. Besides, I don’t want to do anything that Francia could walk in and see. The bitch doesn’t need any more leverage.
So I dig through my top drawer and find the Save the Date mock-ups Anya sent me last week. Actually, she dropped them unceremoniously on top of my laptop and said, “Pick your favorite.”
I swiped them away. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can,” she complained. “Testosterone may make you an unbearable asshole, but it does not make you incapable of having an opinion about design. So pick your favorite and then I’ll tell you if you’re right.”
I stacked them up and handed them back to her. “My favorite is the one you choose for me.”
She’d love to walk through my office door and see me flipping through them now. Unfortunately, when my door opens, it isn’t my sister in the doorway.
“This is ridiculous!” Francia shrieks.
I keep my eyes down. The first Save the Date looks like the announcement for a baby’s baptism. There are winged cherubs and laurel branches and cartoon white roses around the edges. I loathe it.
I slide it to the back of the stack and study the next one.
“What’s ridiculous?” I drawl with as little concern as humanly possible. It’s easy, because I truly do not care.
She stomps into the room, her heels clicking across the hardwood floor. “I told you when I’d be here.”
I glance at the clock hanging on the wall. “You did. You’re very punctual. Good for you.”
I don’t need to look at her to feel the heat of her glare searing into the side of my face.
The second Save the Date template looks like it’s for a destination wedding. Too much blue and gold. Cora and I have never been to a beach together and we wouldn’t get married on one. I slide it to the bottom of the stack.
“I told you when I’d be here,” she repeats, the words practically vibrating out of her. “But no one met me at the door. Your butler left my bags—”
“House manager.”
An exhale hisses between her teeth. “What?”
“Niles is the house manager.” He already hates Francia, so he might turn homicidal if she refers to him as my “butler.”
“Well, your house manager hasn’t managed a fucking thing since I’ve been here! He left my bags in the driveway and showed me to a broom closet instead of a bedroom. It was barely big enough for a twin-sized mattress! This is absurd.”
I bite back a smile. Niles really is a gutsy son of a bitch. I know exactly which room she’s talking about. It actually was a broom closet, at one point. The thought of Francia sleeping with the spiders and cleaning product is exactly the kind of mood boost I needed today.
Then Francia snatches the stack of Save the Dates out of my hand.
“Your staff is treating me like trash and you can’t even look at me. What are you going to do about this?”
Any whisper of a smile is gone from my face now. I turn towards her slowly, looking at her for the first time since she barged into my office. And my blood is fucking boiling.
The fact that sometime in the last hour Francia decided to dress in a full evening gown, diamond earrings and an up-do included, is not helping matters. Does she think we’re heading to our wedding today or does she dress like the Queen of England every afternoon?
“I told you you’d be sleeping in another wing of my house. You agreed to—”
“I didn’t know you expected me to squeeze myself into a fucking shoebox! I saw Cora’s room,” she snaps. “I know there are bigger rooms here. I want to stay in one of those.”
The last time Francia was inside my house was when she was lying to all of our faces. If only I’d known who she really was then, I would have killed her on sight. No hesitation.
“All of the main bedrooms are in the West wing of the house. You are staying in the East wing.”
“Then put me on the West side,” she grits out. “I’m not sleeping on a twin mattress like some peasant brat at summer camp.”
“Then don’t sleep.”
Hang upside down like the life-sucking vampire you clearly are.
She inhales sharply. “Despite this morning, I wanted today to be pleasant.”
And I want Cora to be standing in front of me, whole and unharmed, while Francia’s head is mounted on a spike in my front lawn.
“We don’t always get what we want.”
She leans forward, eyes wide. “I do. And I want the room Cora had.”
“No.”
The air between us ripples with tension, but neither of us break eye contact. “All it takes is one phone call,” she whispers. “One text. And Cora is gone.”
I fucking hate that Francia’s threat tempers the rage boiling inside of me, but how can it not? Cora is in danger. I have to act to keep her safe. That means denying myself what I want more than anything—to have Francia’s hot blood dripping down my hands while she gasps for her last breath—and sticking to the plan.
“You can’t sleep in Cora’s old room because it’s not tradition.”
She frowns. “But Cora—”
“Was never my real fiancée. You are.” It’s a lie disguised as the truth. Cora was closer to being my wife than Francia will ever be. Even if I do have to go through with an actual wedding with her, I will never care about her in the ways that count.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“It means that we have to do things the right way,” I tell her. “Or as right as possible under these circumstances. We can’t cohabitate until the wedding.”
She snorts. “This isn’t the Dark Ages. And I know you are no saint. Plenty of women have ‘cohabitated’ with you.”
“None of them have ever lived with me.”
Until Cora.
Which is why I won’t let Francia prance around my house and play Housewife. That role is reserved for one woman and one woman only.
“I’m not going to be disrespected by your staff and you. If I want to sleep in whatever room I want, then—”
“Then you’ll be breaking the agreement you made.”
Her mouth closes slowly. “How?”
“You agreed to fulfill the role of a Bratva wife,” I remind her. “That means submitting to all of my desires. Right now, I desire tradition.”
She wants to argue, but she knows I’m right.
I reach out and pluck the Save the Dates out of her hand and drop back down into my chair.
She watches me flip through the stack for a few seconds before she lets this battle go and forces lightness into her voice. “Already prepping for the big day?”
If by “big day” she means the day that I get to obliterate her from the planet and be with the woman I actually care about, then…
“Yes,” I tell her. “I’m looking forward to it.”