Velvet Devil: A Russian Mafia Romance (54)

“Okay,” he says, getting back up to his feet.

“Okay?”

“Where would you like to shop?”

“You’re giving me the option?”

“Yes.”

I consider that for a moment. “Fine. Let’s go then.”

“How about, before we do, you pick one dress?” he suggests. “To appease the nervous sales team out there. They’re about to piss themselves in fear, and you’d be doing a good deed, you know. They work on commission.”

I sigh and shake my head at him. “He knew what he was doing sending you with me today.”

“I’m flattered you think so,” he says with another bright grin. He juts his chin towards the nearest rack. “That white dress is spectacular. You should try it on.”

“Son of a bitch,” I half-growl, half-chuckle.

Lachlan just laughs triumphantly.





Three hours later, we’re back at the manor. Edith and one of the other men carry all my bags up to my room. Once I’d started shopping on my own terms, it was hard to stop.

“I can’t believe I bought so much,” I groan, staring at my bags as they’re carried up the stairs.

Lachlan laughs. “Please, the bill wasn’t even two thousand dollars.”

“I think you’re forgetting the white dress.”

“With that one exception,” he concedes. “But it’s his money, not yours. And given that he’s holding you hostage here, it’s the least he can do.”

I give Lachlan an amused grin. Somehow, in the last few hours, he’s managed to nudge my emotions from dislike and resentment to something that’s in the ballpark of affection. He’s funny, honest, and surprisingly easy to like—qualities which have been extremely rare during my time with the Vorobev clan.

And I appreciate the fact that he’s not pretending I’m here of my own free will. It makes me feel like someone’s listening. It doesn’t even seem to matter that he’s not exactly going out of his way to help me.

“That’s a pretty bold statement to make about your boss,” I say.

He shrugs. “I say it like it is. But as far as prisons go, this is a pretty good one.”

I can’t argue there. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Enjoy the rest of your day, Camila.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

Chuckling, he leaves me and I head up the stairs to my room.





21





Camila





I’m walking down a broad corridor when I pass an open door that makes me stop in my tracks.

“Oh my God,” I breathe, turning back and rushing to the threshold. I blink twice, but that does nothing to change my view.

All I can see are books.

Books upon books upon books. Piled so high that I have to crane my neck up to see the top.

I walk inside the room, feeling a little bit like I’m re-enacting the scene from Beauty and the Beast, when Belle walks into the library for the first time. It strikes me that Belle was being held captive in a beautiful castle.

I snort at my own realization.

Is it possible that I’d wanted an adventure of my own so much I’d manifested one?

“Hello?” comes an unexpected voice.

Gasping, I whirl around and find myself face to face with a stunning older woman with grey streaked hair pulled back into a sleek topknot. She’s wearing black pants, a beige sweater and a rust orange scarf belted in place around her torso. I couldn’t look that elegant or effortless with a full team of stylists.

“I’m so sorry,” I stammer. “I didn’t realize there was someone else in here.”

She gives me a curious smile and brandishes the hardcover book in her hand. “I was in need of a little poetry.” Her accent is faint but noticeable, adding a veneer of exoticism to her aura.

Not that she needed it. I can’t take my eyes off her as it is.

“Keats,” I observe, reading the spine of the volume in her hand. “Does that mean you’re feeling a little melancholy?”

She arches a perfect eyebrow. “Melancholy,” she repeats. “That’s a good word. I wish people would use it more often.”

“It would be better if they didn’t have to.”

She smiles sadly. “Do you read poetry?”

“I usually reach for novels first,” I admit. “But I do need a fix of poetry every now again. I tend to favor Maya Angelou, though.”

“Her poetry is a bit more uplifting.”

“Certainly less depressing than Keats.”

She laughs. It sounds like the soft pitter-patter of rain.

“I’m Camila,” I say. I’m feeling slightly self-conscious, even though I have no idea why.

“Nikita,” she replies. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Finally?”

She smiles. It’s a dazzling grin, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes, which remain sad and distant.

“I’m Isaak and Bogdan’s mother,” she explains.

My heart jumps into my throat. Their mother? Jesus. I probably should have made the connection immediately. Bogdan looks a lot like her. But on the surface at least, she doesn’t appear to have much in common with Isaak.