“Speak!”
“Not that I care, but the way she looks at you...”
His eyes gleamed with something like pride.
“Do I hate you? Yes. But I’ll never be unfaithful. You’re my wife.” He turned to Galina. “Return the money I wired, or I’ll kill you and your mother. Scram!”
She nodded, fleeing.
Shock hit me. He fired her... for that?
Butterflies stirred, his loyalty, however twisted, echoed in my head: “I’ll never be unfaithful.”
“I’ll get another tutor,” he said, checking his watch. “I have places to be.” He walked out.
I nearly stopped him. Nearly. My heart leapt despite myself.
Chapter 5
GLEB
––––––––
I sat at the long dinner table in the Romanov mansion, surrounded by my three brothers, two uncles and their wives, and three cousins with their fiancées.
At the center loomed my grandmother, Valentina, the matriarch, the iron fist ruling us all.
The oval dining room fell silent. No one dared breathe too loudly. Valentina tolerated neither noise nor weakness.
“Gleb!” Her voice was soft but unyielding. “Three weeks since you took that woman as your wife. Is she pregnant, or do we replace her?”
“I haven’t checked.”
“You haven’t?” Anger flashed in her eyes. “You know this marriage’s purpose. Your indifference is unacceptable.”
“I’ll have good news by next month, Grandma,” I said, keeping my tone steady. Dinner convened every month’s end, attendance mandatory, no exceptions. Even those outside Moscow flew in. Breaking that rule meant exile. And exile meant death.
“Those Italians burned your mother alive,” she snarled. “You should’ve forced her by now and made her pregnant.” She leaned forward, eyes blazing. “If she’s not, explain yourself, or your cousins will teach you the cost of failing this family.”
“I know, Grandma. Revenge remains my priority. You should trust that.”
She huffed, lighting a cigarette with sharp, furious drags, muttering curses under her breath. “Fucking Italians.”
We all hated them, but Valentina carried the deepest grudge.
They say my grandfather died a slow, agonizing death at the hands of the Italians, tortured beyond measure, his final hours broadcast to our family. Every day, I’m reminded of that horror.
She stubbed the cigarette into a dish. “Are you torturing her? I want details. She needs to suffer.”
Every eye locked on me, hungry for blood. They weren’t alone in their scars, I carried mine too. My mother’s death haunted me, a failure etched into my soul. I was nineteen, too young to save her, and that sting never faded.
“I do things to break her,” I said. “Acts to crush her spirit. Resistance brings swift punishment.”
Grandma’s gaze narrowed, unsatisfied. The others stared, craving more savagery. “Yesterday, I locked her up in my smallest room.”
“Yes!” Uncle Antonio bellowed, impressed.
“Her screams followed me as I left.” I added.
