Chapter 15 15.
Salvatore's private jet landed on a runway scraped out of a wasteland of white. Moscow didn’t exactly roll out the welcome mat but, however, it dared you to step outside and see if you’d last.
When the cabin door cracked open, the air slammed into Elena—dry and sharp, reeking of jet fuel and frozen dirt.
“Boss, would you like my escort?”
“Well, I don't think that would be necessary.”
“Don't worry Luciano, I know you want to watch out for us. Stay close, we'll call you the second things start getting rough.”
“Thank you, miss Moretti. I'll surely stay close.” Luciano said with a bow.
“Miss Moretti?”
“she’s my bride for Christ's sake!, it's Mrs. Romano.”
“It's okay, Salvatore….it's really not worth the hassle.”
“But he should—”
“Anyways, Luciano, send words to squad two. Prepare for backup.”
“Yes, Mrs. Romano.”
“Okay now?” Elena asked with a soft chuckle, turning to look deep into his eyes.
“Maybe.”
Salvatore got out first, immediately reaching for her hand. He looked like he’d stepped out of a gangster film—black wool coat, fur collar, sunglasses hiding his eyes. He looked untouchable.
“Does it still hurts? I mean…you look terrified.” Elena had felt a tiny tremor in his grip, like the cold was tearing at the wound he was still nursing.
“I'm fine. I'm not soft.”
“Remember,” he whispered, breath fogging between them, “don’t look at the cameras. Just look at me. Only me.”
Out on the tarmac, a line of black armored SUVs waited. Dmitry Volkov stood by the lead car, coatless, wearing a slate-blue suit that made winter look like it was just background noise.
“Salvatore!” Dmitry called, his voice cutting through the engine whine. “And the beautiful bride-to-be. Welcome to the end of the world.”
The drive to the Volkov estate blurred by—just gray concrete and bare, bone-thin trees. Finally, the arrived at the Volkov estate. The house looked like a monster built from stone and glass, rising out of the snow like a fortress carved from ice. Inside, the heat smothered her, and the air stank of lilies and old wood.
Dmitry led them to a dining hall where a table waited, set for three. A single bottle of vodka sat in the middle, with two tiny, ornate glasses.
“A tradition,” Dmitry said, eyes cold and bright. “In Russia, we say you can’t know a man’s heart until you share his breath. But since you two are so... devoted... let’s play a different game.”
He poured vodka into both glasses.
“One of these is laced with a neurotoxin. It won’t kill right away but it will inflict a slow, ugly death. The other is the best I’ve got.” Dmitry slid both glasses toward Elena.
“Now you choose young one.”
“If the Romano really has your heart, Elena, you’ll choose for him. Pick right, he lives till sunrise. Pick wrong...” Dmitry grinned. “Well, guess the engagement’s off.”
Salvatore’s face was pure stone. He didn’t look at the drinks. He just watched Elena. “Elena, don’t.”
“it’s okay, love. I've got this.”
She stared at the two glasses. A tiny detail jumped out—the right-hand glass had a faint trace of condensation near the rim, a tell for a chemical reaction while the left one was bone dry.
Elena picked up the left glass and handed it to Salvatore, her hand steady. And her confidence high
Salvatore took the glass from her and turned to Dmitry.
“To Elena” then he raised the glass to his mouth taking long gulps.
Dmitry watched, eyes narrowed, counting off the seconds. Nothing happened. Salvatore just set the empty glass down with a sharp clack.
“Well, looks like even your ritual respects me.”
“Lucky guess,” Dmitry spat, his smile gone. “Or maybe you really do love the monster.”
“It wasn’t luck,” Elena said, voice flat as ice. “I don’t miss details, Dmitry.”
“We’ll see,” Dmitry replied. “Salvatore, my men need you for security details. The secretary will show Elena to the guest suite. We’ll join you soon.”
Salvatore squeezed Elena’s hand, then he was led towards a different room by two giant guards.
The secretary, tall and silent, led Elena down a hallway lined with gloomy portraits of dead Volkovs. He opened a heavy door to a study. “Wait here, Miss Moretti.”
The door clicked shut and locked.
Silence. Then a small speaker on the desk crackled and a voice she knew too well filled the room.
“I’ll take the girl, break her spirit, and get the information. You get your empire back, I get the Romanos’ revenge.”
Elena stopped breathing. The voice wasn't mistaken, a run down the memory lane of the voice from the warehouse.
“And the mother?” her father’s voice asked on the recording.
“If she’s alive, she’s a bonus. Once Elena gives me the Black Box, we end the Russian's. I don’t care what happens to the girl after that.”
The recording fizzed out to static.
Elena’s legs buckled. She grabbed the desk, the whole room spinning.
“Was it all a setup? Have I actually been used the whole time? The gala, the warehouse, the kiss—”
“Was it all just bait for the Black Box?”
The door swung open. Dmitry walked in, holding a glass of wine, wearing fake pity on his face.
“He’s good, isn’t he?” Dmitry said, leaning against the doorframe as he swirled the dark liquid in his glass. “He did a good job making you believe he was with you”
Elena said nothing. Her eyes were fixed on the static-filled speaker. The voice had been so cold and so identical to the man who had looked her in the eye and told her she belonged to him.
“You think you’re the first?” Dmitry stepped closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Salvatore Romano doesn't have a heart, Elena.
Elena forced herself to stand straight, though her insides felt like they’d been shredded. She looked at Dmitry with a sharp gaze.
“If he’s so terrible, why tell me?” she asked, her voice surprisingly steady. “You’re not exactly a saint, Dmitry. You want me for something just as he does.
Dmitry laughed. “Because a broken woman is easier to talk to than a devoted bride. I don’t want you dead, Elena. I want you to realize that the only person in this house who isn't lying to you is the one who isn't pretending to love you.”
He set his wine glass on the desk and gestured toward the door. “Go. Find him. See for yourself what a Romano’s ‘devotion’ looks like when the cameras aren't clicking. But remember, the gala starts in an hour. Don't be late for your own engagement.”
Elena didn't wait for another word. She burst out of the study, her heels clicking against the marble floors. Though she didn't know where she was going. She continued ignoring the guards, her mind a storm of Salvatore’s whispers and the voice from the recorder.
“I don’t care what happens to the girl after that.”
She rounded a corner near the west wing, past a set of heavy, velvet curtains, when she heard voices. Low, intimate, and coming from a partially open door.
She stopped. Her heart was hammering against her ribs so hard it hurt. She crept forward.Through the crack in the door, she saw Salvatore sitting on a low velvet divan, his coat off, his shirt unbuttoned halfway.
“You’re bleeding again, Sal,” a woman's voice came in a whisper, her voice soft. “You’re pushing yourself too hard for this little Moretti brat. Is she really worth the risk?”
Elena froze midstep, placing her right hand over her mouth.
She crept to the door, taking a good view of the scenario.
“Venna, stop acting like you care? And my business with the Moretti daughter shouldn't be your problem.”
“Of course I care babe, or do you no longer love me?” Venna reached to caress his chest with her hand. “I know you do, and I know that Moretti is just a brat, nothing else.”
“Venna?” Elena's mind drifted. “Ohh, the tattoo on his neck?
"Thought it was his mom.”
“Salvatore has a girlfriend?”
Elena stumbled back, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle a cry. Everywhere fes blur!
“He had no plan of protecting me? Even my mother?
This isn't real right? Like, I'd better be in a deep sleep.”
Elena couldn't contain her emotions so she turned and ran towards the way she came. She didn't see where she was going until she slammed into a hard, solid chest.
She looked up, her eyes blurred with tears she had refused to let fall.
“Luciano, why are you in the damn way!!.”
He looked at her, then at the door she had just fled from. His face went pale, his usual stoic expression crumbling into a pity.
“Mrs. Romano... Elena... I can explain,” he started, reaching out for her arm.
“Don't,” Elena hissed, recoiling from his touch. “Don't you dare call me that.” Then she took to her heels, going nowhere in particular.
From the shadows behind Luciano, Dmitry stepped out, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He looked at Elena
’s shattered face and then at the closed door of the west wing.
“Ah,” Dmitry said, exhaling a plume of smoke. “I see you’ve met the real Mrs. Romano.”
“Conflicting, isn’t it?”
He stepped closer, offering a hand to Elena. “The gala starts now, Elena.”
“Are you with or against me?’
“I answer to no one. Let the gala begin.”