Thief (Boston Underworld #5)(8)
Lunch, as she calls it, will likely be soup with a hearty meat dish and sometimes potatoes. Often, she includes a fruity drink with berries inside, the calorie content of which I don’t know, but the sugary taste swiftly dissuaded me from consuming it. Already, in my time here, I have packed on five pounds, and the numbers on the scale from this morning’s weigh-in still haunt me.
“I’m not hungry.”
Nonna frowns, and I look away. I don’t mean to disrespect her. She has been nothing but attentive. Too attentive, in fact, and it’s the only reason for my ire. At home, I have a strict routine with my meals to keep me centered and focused, but here, food has turned to chaos. I am accustomed to providing my own meals. Often, I would be expected to cook my father’s dinner. It was one of the many things he deemed necessary to prepare me for marriage. But my father stuck to the business of eating the food provided and scarcely paid attention to my plate. It was a system that worked for both of us. But since being under Nikolai’s care, my meals appear like clockwork. Meals I have no right to enjoy when I’m not dancing. Even if I were, I’d rarely allow myself to indulge so often.
To my relief, Nonna disappears without a fight, leaving me to focus on my practice. It is the only thing I can focus on, present circumstances considered. Though it’s sometimes tempting in my moments of despair, I refuse to ruminate on the stark reality of my situation. After only two short weeks, dancing feels like a distant memory. The blood, sweat, and tears I have devoted to my craft cannot have been for nothing. My position in the company will surely be at risk. I would be surprised if they haven’t replaced me already. But these are thoughts I won’t be a slave to. Abandoning hope now would mean sacrificing everything I have worked for merely because I do not possess the strength of will it requires to succeed.
It makes little difference that I have been traded for a debt. It is of no consequence that my father has betrayed me, and Nikolai will likely kill me if his demands are not met. I am intimately acquainted with impossible odds, and I have always resolved that, regardless, I would prevail. Vivi always told me that my mind was the most powerful weapon at my disposal, and she was right.
It is with this intention that I close out my practice and exit the gym. I tend to avoid Nikolai if I can help it, and so far, it hasn’t been difficult. It’s only on rare occasion that we come in contact since he dumped me in my room and informed me it would be in my best interest not to attempt to escape.
He should have saved his breath. Just like my father, Nikolai lives his life under lock and key. From everything I’ve observed so far, it’s also apparent that his system is light years ahead of my father’s as far as technology is concerned. Between the fingerprint scanners and pin codes and voice recognition systems, I am not entirely sure how anyone ever leaves. By challenging me to escape, he was merely indulging himself in a good laugh at my expense.
Even if those things weren’t in place, there are other fail safes. Nonna is always watching me, aware of my movements. Her loyalty to Nikolai is unwavering, and I don’t doubt for one second that she’d throw me under the bus the moment she got a whiff of trouble. More dangerous than Nonna are the guards who work for him. Vory members who come and go, speaking to each other in their native language and dutifully ignoring me.
Life at Nikolai’s compound is familiar to the one I have always known, but I am still a prisoner. In that regard, nothing is new. The only variance is the scenery.
Nikolai’s stone fortress is tucked away in the wilderness known as the Berkshires, which is just a hop, skip, and a jump from Boston. It is secure. Decadent, but built for function. Though I am free to roam the house, I have not made it a point to venture far from my bedroom or the gym. Nikolai often utilizes an office on the second level, and so far, I have done my best to avoid it. Dotted along the same grand hall are several bedrooms, including my own, and two bathrooms. Oddly enough, these are the most extravagant areas of the home, with heated floors and open stone showers.
Overall, I find Nikolai’s tastes to be uncommonly old fashioned. In stark contrast to the modern technology that rules his security, the pieces in his home are highly individual and antique. Every chair, lamp, table, and rug are solidly built and well utilized with a long history behind them. While I hardly want to credit the man sporting the disorderly fauxhawk and motorcycle boots with choosing such fine, artistic furniture, somehow, I just know that he did.
Admittedly, certain qualities about him have blindsided me. He exudes an authoritative presence. The kind who could command an audience with one sweep of his glacial eyes. Rather than using this power for the greater good, it seems he chooses to deploy it on a large percentage of the female population as an expression of his virility. His omnipotent energy is a wasted gift on a soul devoid of even a speck of light within the shadows.
These are thoughts I will keep to myself. What he does or doesn’t do with his life is of no importance to me. I only wish that I was not forced to witness the conquests so casually broadcast throughout the house. During my time here, I have been privy to a multitude already. One thing I can say with certainty is that Nikolai is not singular in his tastes. Brunettes, blondes, redheads—he partakes in every flavor. Why he chooses to display these activities openly remains a mystery I have no ambition to solve.
I may be untainted by the sins of the flesh, but I am not ignorant to the ways of men. In my world, it is an expectation that men indulge themselves at the end of a long day. Dante was no different, and I was brought up with the understanding that it was my place to turn a blind eye when my eventual husband sated his desires elsewhere.