Page 9 of Silent Ties (Ruling Love #1)

“No one took any notice of him for years. Until one day, five seconds after this photo was taken, he killed every single man in that huddle.”

I’m lucky I don’t drop the glass in my hand.

He meets my eye when he says, “It only works once that type of plan. No one expected it but afterwards, when he staked his claim and started to run things, then everyone expected it. Because they knew him to be capable.”

He doesn’t press me to speak and I think that’s what he wants. For me to listen rather than respond.

The next photo on the wall is in color, but it’s grainy and based on the clothes worn. It appears to be from the nineties.

Dmitri taps the glass over the photo. “Maks Petrov. My uncle. This guy was brilliant. In 1998, the cartel wanted to do more business. There were some disputes, though. So Maks decides we need a distraction. For weeks the cartel busies themselves with trying to figure out where a mole is coming from. And while they do that, we cut off their head.”

He’s the strategist.

Taking a sip of his liquor, his eyes never leave mine, waiting for my response .

“Do you know that game, capture the flag?”

He sips his drink, otherwise all ears.

“You know the game where there’s two teams and they’re trying to find each other’s flag.” I give a simplistic version in case he’s never played. “The teams do all these things, running around, hiding their own, coming up with strategies and tactics to get the other flag and win the game.”

He doesn’t rush me but I can hear him questioning where this is going.

“Do you ever wonder about the flag itself? After a while everyone gets bored, decides to go do something else and that bit of flag, whatever it is, that’s been passed around and torn apart all in the name of sportsmanship, gets left on the ground. Crumpled. Used.”

That’s me. If I was more eloquent I’d compare this all to a game of chess, but I know nothing about it. I don’t know the rules or why everyone loves it and quite frankly I think it’s pretentious.

That little strip of flag, that piece of fabric that nobody actually cares about, that’s me. I don’t care who wins or loses because it’s a stupid game. One in which, I will never win.

All because there’s some power on the line. This house wasn’t gifted to Lev Zimin. He bought it with cash from a wide-ranging operation that’s so sinister I don’t want to think about it.

Yet, here I am.

Dmitri’s eyes never darken or narrow like his nephew's. His face is blank, if not a little tired, but the stare drags on until the back of my neck pricks.

And then his eyes move down and for a split second, I swear it’s like he knows what burdens sit on my chest.

He doesn’t. He notices my half-empty drink. “Do you want a refill?”

I shake my head and he shrugs. “Maxie doesn’t like these things either so don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll get you out first chance.”

He leaves me in the hall, sipping on his drink, unbothered by the entire exchange.

Lev really had it right, hiding himself with the food.

I find the bathroom at the end of the hall, but a second after entering the door clicks open again.

“Sorry.” I turn, coming face to face with Yelena. “Oh.”

This isn’t accidental at all.

The fire in her eyes is different from her son’s. It’s cold, cruel—almost inhuman.

“My son decided to keep you.”

I placed my drink on the counter but now regret not having anything to do with my hands. They remain limp at my sides, the space growing smaller and smaller. I found Dmitri’s conversation unnerving. This is ten times worse.

There’s no maneuvering around her. I stand and listen.

“Did my son fuck you well?”

“What?”

There’s a natural pout to her lips, giving a haughty expression at all times. “You must be good or else why keep you.”

There’s marked emphasis on the last word. I’m trash among their finer things.

My lips part, not knowing what to say.

She gets too close, letting me see her mask of anger. A claw points at me, touching the fabric of my dress. “Marissa thinks she sent her best whore, but you are nothing.”

I could have told her that, but she likes hearing herself talk.

“You harm my son,” she hisses, my heart thudding, “I bury you deeper than any of these kings think they know how.”

“I. . .” know this and despite the threats, I understand the motherly instincts. My empathy means nothing when a slap rips through the air, my face swinging from the force.

I can’t move it back to look at her. It’s frozen as I ponder whether someone’s head can fall off from a slap that hard. The skin tingles and I’m certain there’s a red mark. Honestly, I’m lucky her long fingernails didn’t claw my face out. I suppose that would leave it too obvious.

An incoherent noise—a whimper I realize a moment later—catches in the back of my throat when she painfully twists a nipple.

“Know your place whore.”

Her feet stomp to the exit.

I’m not a perfect person. It’s why I’m here. Why Marissa got a hold of me. But I’ve never been so violated until this moment.

My neck creaks as I stiffly move. A dim want makes me wish to crumple on the floor.

I swipe under my eyes when I hear noise outside the door. Fuck this door I keep forgetting to lock. If it’s not the cheek that’s red, it’s certainly my nose.

I don’t care how childish it is, I wrench back the shower curtain. And nearly shit my pants when I realize someone is already there.

“What the actual fuck?”

A woman, possibly my age, appears just as panic-stricken. The door handle turns and I duck in, careful of my heels on the porcelain tub.

Of all the strange things the past month, it’s this moment, right here, that takes the cake.

We stand inches from each other, not daring to breathe and I pray the dark green curtain hides us enough.

It doesn’t help that the person takes their sweet damn time.

Nails clack against a phone, typing. Then they scoot over to the toilet. For a full minute only the sound of piss fills the bathroom.

Then the person proceeds to sit there.

It gives me time to take in this new person.

The first thing I notice is the sneakers.

They’re not gym shoes by any means but why the fuck didn’t I get the memo?

Her black dress stops above her knees, gold stitching accenting the material.

Dark brunette hair hangs in deep, pretty waves, without a hint of frizz.

Chocolate chip eyes remain wide, doing their own assessment, and when she subtly shifts her hair my breath catches.

A brutal scar runs down her cheek. It’s old, no longer red, but the deeply grooved skin tells me the original wound took a chunk out of her. She tilts her head down, hair cascading over her face again.

The toilet flushes, the faucet turns on, and after yet another couple of minutes of primping and prepping, the person leaves.

I hop out and lock the door. “What the fuck were you doing in the bathtub?”

The girl is halfway out, her leg getting caught in the curtain.

“Sorry!” she squeaks and pushes at the material. Once she’s free, she slides her hands down her dress, but the hair remains in her face. “I’m so sorry!”

“Why were you hiding in the bathroom?” I repeat.

“I freaked out!” She tilts her feet, her inner soles coming together. “There were people. A person. And I tried to hide and I’m sorry, the door didn’t lock, and I’m so sorry.”

“Did the person chase you into the bathroom?” Can I expect this level of shit show at every Zimin party?

“No! Well, it got close. I don’t know, sorry!”

I feel bad for this person, whoever they are, because that’s how awkward they are. And it’s not exactly like I can say much.

I cross my arms over my chest. “So you. . . ”

She nods. “Everyone knows Yelena is a bitch but that was. . .”

My face heats but I can’t bring myself to inspect it in the mirror. I don’t want to face the physical evidence.

The girl lifts a hand, her voice gentle. “Did it hurt?”

I step out of her reach and she leans her head to the side. Not enough for her hair to fall completely out of her face, though. She knows exactly how to keep the scar hidden.

“It’s fine,” I say firmly taking inspiration from her. Dislodging a few bobby pins, hair tumbles down my face. I don’t think about how hard I worked on my hair before we got here.

“That was really cruel,” she whispers.

Her pity sparks pinpricks at the corner of my eyes. “Um, who are you?”

“Oh, right.” She holds out a hand. “I’m Leonora. But everyone calls me Lennie.”

It fits. The way she’s sophisticated in her dress, but down to earth with the sneakers. We shake hands and I introduce myself though there’s no doubt she knows exactly who I am.

“Do you make a habit of hiding in bathtubs?”

Her cheeks flush. “Yeah, sorry. I. . .”

“You think we could get away with hiding here all night?”

A sheepish grin tugs at her lips. “I wish.”

Ruining the idea, a knock bangs against the door.

“Are you?” I ask, pointing over my shoulder.

“Are you?” she replies, a serious expression crossing her face.

I smooth my hair back and shrug. Not really, but what’s the point. “I don’t suppose you know where they keep the good stuff?”

She laughs. “I don’t actually know the place very well anymore. It’s why I hid out here. ”

A man frowns when we exit together, but says nothing as he slams the door shut.

“Do you need another drink?” Lennie offers. Her words are tentative like she expects me to turn her down.

“That’d be great.”

We walk back to the main room, where people still congregate in little groups. I take one sip before I feel Max’s presence by my side.

“Lennie.”

She fiddles with her hair, pushing back the strands to show off her scar-free cheek. “Hi. How have you been?”

He nods but doesn’t offer much and a second later, something over his shoulder catches her eye.

“It was lovely to meet you,” she softly says, ducking away.

“Bye.” I wave, disheartened to see my only ally leave. “Do you know her well?”

Max glances towards Lennie, now tucked away with two other women, their builds and mannerisms similar enough that I pick up the family connection. “She’s an Akatov.”

Shock tingles over my skin. “The Akatov’s are here?”

Of course, it’s a party full of mafia royalty. But other than Lennie there’s been no putting names to faces.

And everyone knows the Akatov name.

Elijah appears before he can say anything and maybe I imagine it, but when his eyes narrow on who we’re looking at, the two sisters beside Lennie edge toward her. Creating a curtain to shield her out of sight.

To shield her from Elijah.

And color me fucking intrigued.