I vaguely recognized this might be the sister-in-law Ronan mentioned, but I didn’t have time to dwell on it because a man stepped into the doorway dressed in a cool blue suit, a sippy cup in hand.
The woman hefted the girl higher on her hip, her voice dry as she nodded toward me. “Christian, look at what your brother has done.”
My body tightened in mortification when his gaze came my way, though he seemed to be assessing the situation more than noticing I was completely naked. His face was stunning, carved from ice into perfection, and the mere touch of his eyes made me recall that photo in Ronan’s office.
He was the other boy.
Christian looked away from me and said simply, “She’s a Mikhailov.”
“What’s Mikhailov?” the little girl asked.
The woman put a hand on her hip. “I don’t care if she’s Satan’s daughter—”
“Close,” he responded.
“Satan has horns.” The girl looked at me with a sense of disappointment. “She don’t have horns.”
Weird child aside, wasn’t Christian’s brother the one they called D’yavol? I hated how everyone looked at me like I was some kind of monster. Now that I knew what business my papa was in, all the cold, fearful glances I’d received since arriving in Moscow suddenly made sense.
“I’m not leaving her like this,” the woman said.
“Mamma,” her daughter whispered. “Is she my babywatcher?”
“Babysitter. And no, cara mia.”
“Oh.” The girl pursed her lips. “Then we should probably let her go, Papa.”
How old was this girl? And had she been raised in a den of vipers?
He didn’t look pleased with his wife and daughter ganging up on him, but he didn’t argue. He grabbed the girl from her arms and turned toward me, his voice colder than a Russian winter.
“Touch my wife, and what my brother has done to you will suddenly look like fun.”
I swallowed.
His wife rolled her eyes. “He’s a little intense, but he means well.” She tried to shut the door, but he stopped it from closing with his foot, giving her a meaningful look to leave it open. She smiled innocently at him, like she’d behave. When he finally left, she waited with an impatient tap of her cheetah-print stilettos until he was far enough down the hall he wouldn’t notice, then she shut it.
“I’m Gianna, by the way.” She walked toward me. “I’m sure you don’t go by Mikhailov?”
I hesitated, not knowing what to expect from her considering her husband was terrifying, and her brother-in-law should be committed. Finally, I answered, “Mila.”
“Nice to meet you, Mila.” She sat on the edge of the bed. “Where are you from?”
“Miami.”
“Oh, I adore Miami. I’ve never eaten better Cuban food anywhere else,” she said, adding with amusement, “but, then again, I haven’t exactly been to Cuba.”
I stared at her. I wasn’t sure what kind of world I’d stepped into, and it was starting to hurt my head.
Gianna struggled with the rope on my wrist, murmuring in a language I thought was Italian. She was, so far, the nicest—if questionably sane—person I’d met since setting foot in Moscow.
“He learned how to tie a knot in prison,” I said tonelessly.
“Among other things, I’m sure,” she parried as if she was annoyed. “I wonder if he engaged in a threesome too.”
She laughed at my blankly confused expression. “Sorry, that was just my aversion to prison nurses showing. It happens at the oddest times.” She finally freed a wrist before moving to the other, and I winced at the ache in my muscles as I lowered my arm to my side. “I’ve never known Ronan to tie a woman to a bed only to leave her there. I hope it’s just a phase.”
I was beginning to understand crazy was just the norm around here.