Page 22 of Sweet Deception

Chapter 6

ANNA

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With my dance tutor gone, the mansion felt emptier each day. Boredom gnawed at me. I was Gleb’s wife, not his captive, at least, that’s what I told myself. So I decided to leave.

I told Zoya I was going out, expecting resistance, her loyalty to Gleb was unshakable. She narrowed her eyes but didn’t argue.

“You shouldn’t go alone,” she said at last. “But if you’re set on it, I won’t stop you. Just be careful.”

That was it. No warning, no mention of Gleb’s possible reaction. It unsettled me.

When she asked if I could drive, I hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.” Gleb’s cars were sleek, ostentatious machines, the kind that turned heads. I didn’t want attention. I wandered the garage until I found an older, classic model, something understated.

I slid inside and drove off. Maria and I used to sneak off and practice driving outside our estate in Italy. The feel of the wheel in my hands was unfamiliar. I hadn’t driven since my accident in Italy, and never on Moscow’s streets.

I’d researched Moscow’s hotspots online, and one club stood out, buzzing with hype. Clubbing alone wasn’t ideal, I’d have called a friend in Italy, maybe one of Maria’s old crew but here, I was a stranger. No friends. No ties.

I was suffocating, and going out was the only way to change that.

At the bar, I ordered a drink and watched the DJ spin. Couples danced, their steps foreign compared to Italy’s rhythms, butentertaining. I giggled as a guy stumbled, his girlfriend lunging to catch him, both nearly toppling.

“You’re from the West?” a voice asked behind me.

I turned to see a tall, muscular man, burly and young. His Russian was too fast, his words lost on me.

“I don’t speak Russian,” I said.

“Ah,” he switched to English. “Where are you from?”

“Italy.”

“Wow. I’m Ivan.” He extended a hand.

“Anna.” I shook it, his grip warm and firm.

“My mother lives in the West,” he said, sliding onto the stool beside me.

We clicked fast. Ivan was easygoing, his laughter unguarded, puffing a cigarette now and then. I didn’t mind; Moscow’s chill demanded warmth. He offered to introduce me to his friends, and I agreed. We moved to a couch upstairs.

“Where are they?” I asked, settling in.

“Coming soon,” he said. I nodded, at ease.

He cracked a dark joke, and I laughed. It felt good to talk, like I existed beyond being ‘Gleb Romanov’s wife.’

As he shared quirks of Russian culture, two men approached.

They weren’t like Ivan. Their presence sent a chill through me, tattoos snaked up their arms, their eyes too sharp, too calculating.

“Friends?” I asked casually.

“Yeah,” Ivan said. He switched to Russian to introduce me. I didn’t understand their words, but I felt their scrutiny.

They tossed wraps of weed onto the table, lighting up. My stomach twisted, gang vibes radiated from them. Ivan had felt safe alone, but now, unease crept in. I needed out.

“Excuse me, I need the bathroom,” I said, standing abruptly, heart pounding.