Velvet Devil: A Russian Mafia Romance (59)

I grab the round cushion behind my back and fling it across the space. It hits the grill of the fireplace and lands soundlessly on the carpeted floor.

“Pardon me, Miss Camila?”

I whip around to see Edith standing in the doorway of my bedroom. She’s looking at me with concern.

“Edith,” I say, blushing. “I didn’t see you there.”

She steps tentatively in the room and pulls the door shut with a soft click. “Are you okay, ma’am?”

I sigh. “Would you please just call me Camila?”

“I can try,” she says uncertainly. “But it doesn’t feel comfortable.”

“Do you treat all your boss’s prisoners like they’re honored guests in this house?”

I wince as soon as the mean words are out of my mouth. That was unnecessary. Edith hasn’t done anything wrong.

But I can’t help it. I’m frustrated and alone and feeling entirely too vulnerable. Isaak has exploited my greatest weakness—which, incidentally, turns out to be him.

“Well, you’re the first one, Miss Camila,” Edith says.

A snort of laughter bursts through my lips. “The first guest or the first prisoner?”

“Both, I suppose,” she says after a moment of thought.

I sigh again. “Sit down, please.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Madam…”

“Go on,” I tell her, gesturing to the empty space beside me on the couch. “Don’t make me get stern.”

She hesitates slightly, but eventually she sits down, though she stays perched on the edge of the cushion like she might sprint out of the room at any second.

“I’ve been here more than a week now,” I say. “And I barely know anything about you.”

She gives me a surprised smile. It’s almost as though she’s saying, “I’m the maid; why would you even care?”

“There’s nothing much to know, Miss Cam—” She breaks off under my pointed glare. “Camila,” she corrects in a hushed tone. “Just Camila.”

“Tell you what: I’m gonna ask you to do me a favor,” I say with a friendly smile. “I don’t expect you to make a habit of it. But just for now, just for this conversation… could you pretend we’re friends?”

I say it like it’s a joke. And it is—partly. Like, maybe two percent kidding. But the other ninety-eight percent is very, very serious.

For the better part of six years, I’ve been a ghost under the protection of the United States government. Few friends, few moments of human connection.

Even now, who do I have? Isaak?

We do a lot more fighting than talking.

And there’s a distinct power dynamic between us. He’s hiding things from me; I’m hiding things from him. As brutally honest as we are sometimes, there’s always something we’re holding back from each other.

Because being vulnerable is the ultimate sign of weakness. In the don’s world, at least.

Which leaves me with Edith. Because I desperately need someone to talk to. And I’m running out of options.

She looks positively dumbfounded by the request. But to her credit, she swallows, straightens up, and beams at me. “I can do that,” she says.

I give her a grateful smile. “Music to my ears. How did you get this job?”

“My brother works for Master Isaak,” she tells me. “In one of the factories. I’d just graduated secondary school and I needed a decent job with some flexibility. I’m putting myself through university.”

“That’s amazing, Edith.”

“I’ve got about a year to go.”

“And then?”

“Then I’ll hand in my notice here and find a job in advertising or sales. Something corporate and exciting. Someplace I can wear power suits and give a bunch of men orders.”

I laugh. “Not so mild-mannered after all, are you?”

She shrugs but grins bashfully. “We all have our roles to play. I’m not here to make waves. I’m here to keep my head down and get myself through uni. I’m grateful to Master Isaak for giving me this job.”

I lean back. “Is he a good boss?”

“I know this isn’t exactly what you want to hear… but yes, he is.”

“And you like him?”

She tenses immediately, as though I’ve asked her an invasive question. Then again, given that I’m asking her about her boss, and I am technically his wife, I suppose it is an invasive question to ask.

“Sorry. You don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.”

“No, no, it’s quite alright,” she says quickly, as though her window of honesty is closing. “It’s okay. I do like him. He’s definitely scary sometimes—”

I smirk in agreement. “Tell me about it.”

“But for a man that’s as powerful as he is, he can also be rather kind.”

Kind. Now that’s a word I never expected to hear in relation to Isaak Vorobev. The fact that it’s coming from a house servant makes it all the more impactful.

“There was this one semester that was really hectic. I was behind on my assignments and working to try and put a dent in my student loans. I was stressed all the time. Not many employers would even notice.” She raises her eyes and looks at me. “But he did. And when I told him, he just listened. He was sympathetic. Then I went back to work and that was that. About a week later, I got a call from the bank about my student loan. He had paid it in full.”