Red dresses meant trouble.
Rose considered sitting, but she didn’t like this. Not one bit. “What’s going on?”
“Shut the door.” Papa spoke curtly.
Oh shit. She quickly obeyed. “Is there trouble?” The Romanovs had been at peace for as long as she’d been alive. She’d heard stories of how Papa had almost gone to war with Mama’s family, but once they were married and eliminated the single threat within the city, things had settled down. There were skirmishes—there were always skirmishes—but if she’d learned anything, it was that things could change on a dime. It only took some new group to come into town and decide to start throwing their weight around.
“Sit down, Rose.” Mama was speaking Russian, which sent alarm bells ringing. When it came to business, she only switched to Russian when she was very, very serious.
Rose slowly sank into one of the two chairs across from the desk. “You’re scaring me.”
Mama sighed. “You’ve done a foolish thing, daughter. You should be scared.” She glanced at Papa. When Rose was little, it seemed magical how they could have entire conversations without saying a single word. Now, she recognized it as thirty years of shared life together. She couldn’t help a little twinge of envy at the thought.
She wanted that. Someday. With the right person.
Papa gave a sigh of his own. “We give you a significant amount of freedom. Too much, apparently.”
That had her straightening. “Excuse me? I’m twenty-seven. I do everything you ask of me and more. I deserve what little freedom I have.”
“Da.” He glanced at her mother.
Mama picked up a tablet from the desk. “We know you’ve been slumming it with some civilian, and we allowed it because, as you said, you do everything we ask and more. You’re a good daughter and an asset.”
Rose tensed. “I’m sensing a but coming, and it feels like a doozy.”
“This is the boy you’ve been playing with for the past few months, da?” Mama flipped the tablet around. On the screen was a picture of Jackson. He wore a white T-shirt and faded pair of jeans. The same thing he had on during their most recent date. He’d brought her flowers, just like he did on every date, even though it’d been months and she had a toothbrush at his apartment. Roses for his Rose. Jackson was a dork, but she liked it. She liked him.
Rose’s breath stilled in her lungs as she realized the implications of this photo. “You had me followed.”
“You slipped your detail. Again. It’s our job to ensure you’re safe.” Papa’s gray eyes were cold, cold, cold. That, in and of itself, was a warning she couldn’t afford to ignore. He only ever looked like that before violence occurred.
Oh, Papa would never touch her or her sisters or Mama, but the same couldn’t be said for anyone he considered a threat. Anya got the same look right before she slipped into the night to commit acts that would give a normal person nightmares. Anything to ensure the safety of their family, the security of their territory.
Rose’s hands weren’t lily white, either.
That didn’t mean she was going to roll over for her parents right now. She couldn’t pretend they didn’t get a say when it came to who she eventually settled down with, but right now she was just having fun. She was very careful to avoid ending up pregnant, and that’s the only thing they needed to worry about. “This isn’t your business.”
“Wrong.” Mama flicked a finger across the screen, scrolling to a new picture.
Rose leaned forward, frowning. A different picture of Jackson, but he didn’t look like Jackson in it. He had the same athletic build, and his golden hair was shorter than it was now and slicked back. Without his hipster beard, he was almost too pretty. Too flawless. He also wore a perfectly tailored suit that her practiced eye told her cost a small fortune. Way more than some college-dropout bartender should be able to afford. Still, it was undeniably him. “Where did you get this?”
“This man? His name isn’t Jackson.” Mama hesitated and looked at Papa. “Rose…”
She didn’t like this. She didn’t like this at all. Her parents didn’t hesitate, and they didn’t beat around the bush. “Say it.” No matter what they weren’t telling her, better to know and deal with it than to be left hanging. “Just say it.”
Papa was the one who finally spoke. “The man you’ve been sneaking off with, the one whose apartment you spent the night in last night. His name isn’t Jackson Smith. It’s Dante Verducci.”
The room took a sickening spin around her. She knew that last name, if only in theory. As heir, it was her job to keep her finger to the pulse of not just New York but the other cities where her Romanov cousins held power. They were powerful because they were stronger together, creating a network that spanned a good portion of the US coastline. But their enemies were just names to be memorized, especially Kirill and Sasha’s since they were in Los Angeles and Seattle, respectively.