“You wish to teach?”
“Yes. I love children.”
Of course she does. I look over at Mika, now asleep on his bed. No wonder she takes such an interest in him.
Knowing she has this humanitarian side, this reverence for children, stirs something in my chest.
“You want children?” Suddenly the image of her pregnant with my child floods my imagination. Draws out some primitive caveman protectiveness. I never wanted children, but the idea of knocking her up, of creating a family with her flips my world on its head.
But she flinches at my words and looks away. “I can’t.”
My disappointment is as ridiculous as the idea of having children with her was to begin with. But maybe I’m just feeling her pain. She’s clearly deeply wounded by this.
“Why not?”
She doesn’t answer.
“The diabetes?”
A tiny nod, but she’s still looking away.
Oh, Alessia.
Surely people with diabetes have children. I make a note to research it, but a chill creeps over my skin. Alessia must have had the best doctors money can buy. If she believes she can’t have children, it’s with good reason.
I shouldn’t feel pain over it.
It’s just as well considering our marriage won’t be a long-term one.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter and she darts a glance my way. The vulnerability I glimpse on her face tears me up.
Alessia
Damn Vlad. My eyes get hot and watery under his sympathetic gaze, and I have to look away again.
I wish he weren’t so damn observant.
I haven’t told anyone about the stage 3 kidney failure. Not any of my brothers, especially not my mother. So I haven’t had to face this moment before, of revealing my sharpest disappointment in life.
Desperately needing to change the subject, I turn back to him and draw a breath. “What about you, Vlad? What is your job in Russia?”
“I am derzhatel obschaka. Bookkeeper for the bratva. I’m the money guy. I move money, launder money. Hide money. I had reached out to your brother not to cause problem, but to offer solution. Clean his money, too. But then my mother died in Moscow. I had to fly back to Russia, and Ivan, my idiot compatriot decided killing your family was a better option.”
I blink at him, surprised at this information. I don’t want to find Vlad so likeable. Knowing he’s not a drug dealer or sex trafficker or hitman, but more of a white collar thug, doesn’t hurt his case. Knowing he has a mother—had a mother—makes him all the more real. Normal. Human.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say.
Something fierce and raw appears on his face. Unexpressed grief. I get the feeling he hasn’t been offered condolences. Or the loss is still too fresh. Or there are unresolved issues there. He drops his head and lets it hang. “My mother—da. I still don’t believe she’s gone. It’s strange to go back and know she won’t be there.”
I reach out and touch his arm. He looks up, shocked. Like I branded him.
But his lips twist into a bitter line. “Don’t feel sorry for me. I shouldn’t miss her. She was a manipulative bitch, like every woman in my life.”
I remove my hand, recoiling. Because I sense he somehow lumps me into that category, too.
I know I’m right when he narrows his eyes at me. “You can stop your game of trying to win my sympathies. Lie down on your bed. Go to sleep. Tomorrow is your wedding day.”
My stomach lurches and I’m suddenly nauseous. I surge to my feet and square my shoulders, throwing the rest of my water back in my throat. “Where’s my toothbrush?” I demand like the spoiled brat he seems to think I am.
I fully expect him to tell me to go fuck myself, but he reaches in his satchel and produces it—the toothbrush and travel toothpaste in a small ziplock bag. Still taking care of me.
I shouldn’t like it. Shouldn’t want any sort of attention from the man who’s captured me and wants to force me to marry him.
I grab the bag out of his hand and march away to the bathroom, working hard to steady my breath and my nerves.
He won’t win this game. Sooner or later I will escape. My brothers will find me.
And he’ll be the one on his knees begging for mercy.
Chapter 8
Alessia
We land the following afternoon after a sixteen hour flight. I spent the morning playing cards with Mika and ignoring Vlad.
I’m on edge as we get off the plane and a swarm of tattooed men in suits and guns flank us and lead us to a limo.
If Vlad seemed like a one-man show back in the U.S., it’s clear he’s plenty connected on his home turf. I look out the tinted window, my hands clammy and my stomach in knots.
“It’s normal for a bride to be nervous on her wedding day,” Vlad observes and I shoot him my best death stare.