Maria
“Are we getting married here instead?” I look up dubiously at the gray stone castle rising above its surroundings against a cloudless sky. The Sorokin estate sits atop a cliff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean like a nightmare waiting to be dreamt.
“It looks isolated.” I frown as I press my nose against the car window to get a better look.
Mikhail smirks. “If you like, but I’ve already booked the fort upstate.”
After a quick but romantic day trip to Niagara Falls, we agreed on Fort Charles in Twinning, New York, for our wedding venue. Neither place looks inviting or welcoming, a stark contrast to the joy I feel for my upcoming wedding, but they certainly look like they’ll keep an army out.
“Don’t tease me,” I tell Mikhail. “I’m nervous enough as it is.”
“You’ll do fine. You’ve impressed the hell out of them already.” He smirks, then lapses into a thoughtful silence.
We’ve been driving for what feels like hours on the NY Thruway. Three SUVs follow behind our Mercedes to a meeting among friends. Friends? I want to scoff at the word. The men we’re about to meet are fragile allies at best.
But Mikhail is determined to convince them to support him by staying out of our business.
If we can’t get my father’s blessing, we’ll settle for theirs.
“All that’s missing is a dark and stormy night,” I quip as we drive up to a fortified guardhouse. I look straight ahead when a rough man steps out and approaches the car.
Mikhail hands the guard his gun, and I notice our other guards stop and do the same.
“Is it safe?” I ask.
“House rules,” Mikhail explains, navigating the winding drive to the main door. “Radomil Sorokin owns an impressive collection of art and antiques,” he adds. “Maybe he’ll give you a tour.”
I don’t respond immediately and stare at the tiny speck of the Atlantic past the stone structure. I wonder how many unfortunates have been thrown down there.
“Our meeting interests me more than some paint on a canvas,” I reply firmly.
Mikhail grins. “Sorokin is a cold fish who doesn’t know the meaning of a smile. But Anatoli Popov is a charmer who loves to socialize. Gossip is worth more to him than gold, and he hoards both. And Dmitri … Well, you’ve met his wife, Natasha.”
I nod, feeling reassured, but I know better than to be cocky.
“Don’t worry.” Smiling, I bat my lashes. “I know how to charm dangerous men.”
Mikhail raps the iron knocker against the gigantic oak door, and slowly, it creaks open. I camouflage my surprise behind a mask of indifference when I see an elderly man with silver hair and a straight back standing in the doorway. His advanced age conceals impressive strength. He examines us both before stepping aside to let us in.
Mikhail motions to his guards to remain near the SUVs, except for Anton and Pavel, who enter behind us. A few burly-looking men standing around the hall watch us suspiciously as we enter, but this is to be expected. They quickly move aside as Popov shows up to greet us. He’s tall and wide, and a thick, dark beard covers his chin and neck. I recognize him from the gala and try not to stare too hard.
“Welcome, Mikhail Ivanov.” Popov’s laughter booms across the hall as he welcomes us further into the house. His warmth competes with his size. Both are in the extreme. Mikhail says Popov chooses to use charm, not brawn, to handle delicate situations.
“Anatoli Pavlovich.” Mikhail clasps hands, and Popov pulls Mikhail into a tight hug. “Not ready to completely retire yet?”
“My granddaughter says I suffer from FOMO.” He laughs. “And it’s hard for me to stay away from the antics of you children.”
He smiles at Mikhail with approval, but this man is no fool. His blessing must always be earned. Popov looks toward me, and I smile softly, determined not to fawn over this man.
“This is my fiance, Maria Budanov,” Mikhail says. “You haven’t been formally introduced.”
“Sir.” I hold out my hand, and Popov bows over it, holding it firmly.
“I have been looking forward to meeting the woman who will be the future of the Ivanov Bratva.”
“I can’t be the future on my own,” I speak softly but firmly. “Mikhail must play his part.”
“Of course.” His brown eyes twinkle when he looks at me. “Let’s not keep the others waiting.”
My gaze scans the interior of this breathtaking mansion, and I’m stunned by the collection of rare artworks on the wall. Centuries-old paintings that no doubt belong in a museum but somehow have found their way into a private collection. I put my eyes back into my head and hope I haven’t made myself look like an amateur by gawking. I look at Mikhail, who has barely lifted his gaze to the artwork on the walls.
A guard opens a door for us, and I’m allowed to enter first. I keep my composure as I eye the two men seated at a big carved table in what must be a dining room. They stand as I enter. The man at the head of the table is older and thinner, and his white hair barely covers his scalp.
Just as Mikhail said, Radomil Sorokin doesn’t smile like Popov, and his steel blue eyes pierce into me, seeking my depths for weakness.
You won’t find any today, old man.
The other man with dark hair pulled back to show a distinct scar is Dmitri Chuikov. He’s about the same age as Mikhail, which means he must have the same brash ego that a pakhan requires to survive. I remember them both vaguely, and I nod to them as if I could never forget.
“Zdravstvuyte.”Sorokin approaches first and bows over my outstretched hand.
“Zdravstvuyte,” I reply, noting the looks of subtle surprise, but I don’t waste time gloating about how well Dominika has taught me to speak a few words of Russian.
Dmitri repeats Sorokin’s polite gesture, adding a pat to Mikhail’s shoulders. Carefully, I take my seat. Once I’m seated, the rest of them sit down as well. I know I’m being included, but I’m also aware that it’s not Mikhail who is being scrutinized.
It’s me. Right now, my loyalty will be questioned.
As I gaze at the three men across from me, I’m reminded of another time when three men interrogated me.
That was a different Maria, I remind myself.
A round loaf of bread is brought out atop an embroidered cloth, and there’s a hole in the middle filled with salt. Each man rips a piece and scoops a generous heap before taking a bite. The plate is then passed to me, and I mirror their action.
“Salt and bread is a tradition,” Dmitry explains to me as I chew. “A gesture of goodwill.”
“Perhaps we should discuss business over a meal.” Popov smiles. “The steak is good here, and it would be rude of Radomil Ivanovich not to share.”
“I’m sure Mikhail Ivanov is not here for steak,” Dmitri replies as Sorokin scowls at the expense.
“Yebats’,” Sorokin sighs. “I suppose you still want the wagyu, Anatoli Pavlovich?”
Popov laughter means a definite yes. I don’t dare tell them the smell of meat has been hell on my stomach since my pregnancy. With the exception of a few bites here and there, I’ve almost given meat up. But accepting their hospitality is more than good manners. If I have to eat a whole cow to win these men over, then I’ll make sure to finish every bite.