13. Daniela

Dimitri Fedorov is utterly charming, with his snow-white hair and impeccable manners. He exudes a sense of wealth and refinement, but he’s not in the least bit stuffy.

The man has lived a rich life, and between peppering me with seemingly innocuous questions about grapes, the perfume I’m wearing, and my favorite pastimes—the latter two are met with a stony glare from my husband—Dimitri regales us with his mesmerizing stories.

But through it all, I never forget that my own dark prince called him a ruthless monster.

By the time Port is served, even my husband has relaxed. Well, maybe he’s not exactly relaxed, but I’m no longer concerned he’s going to pull out that gun and threaten Fedorov within an inch of his life. With Antonio, one needs to savor the small victories.

“Since you’ve asked how I like to spend mine, what is it you enjoy in your free time?” I ask, smiling at Dimitri.

He stops with his dessert fork midair, searching my face. My question was a tiny bit cheeky, but not at all rude.

From the corner of my eye, I see Antonio reach below the table. I hold my breath, but he doesn’t actually go for the gun. But he won’t hesitate if it becomes necessary.

“You’re so much like your mother,” Fedorov murmurs. “You even sound like her. If I close my eyes while you’re talking, I can picture her sitting here instead of you.”

My skin prickles. Not with fear, but with a kind of awareness that I don’t understand. Isabel often said I reminded her so much of my mother. She would use the words he just used, or something similar. If I close my eyes... My father thought so, too. But how does Dimitri Fedorov know I sound like my mother? My parents had nothing to do with the Bratva. And I’ve never seen this man before tonight. I search his face, but he shows me nothing.

“You knew my mother?” It comes out with a bit of a squeak.

Antonio’s hands are both on the table now, but his posture is rigid.

The Russian nods. “I was in love with her.”

I gasp, and gawk at him with my mouth open.

“I don’t care for any coffee,” Antonio says, tossing his napkin on the table. “Dinner is over.”

My heart drops into my stomach. I never knew my mother as an adult. When she died, I was a child. I’m always hungry for any little tidbit about her life—especially her life before she married my father. Surely that’s what he’s talking about.

I place my hand on Antonio’s and weigh my words carefully, pleading with my eyes. “If you can spare a few more minutes, I would love a coffee.”

I’m exceedingly polite and respectful of Antonio, although under the table, I lightly press my shoe into his. But I don’t challenge him in front of Fedorov. I simply give him the opportunity to indulge his young wife. He can easily say, I have to take a phone call. Let’s have coffee at home, or he can choose to humor me.

I hold my breath, waiting, and hoping. And waiting some more.

“I suppose I have a little time. But only enough for one short story about your mother.” His lips twitch as he speaks. He just called out my manipulation about wanting coffee, not to embarrass me, but so our dinner guest would know he’s fully aware of my hijinks. To be honest, I wouldn’t have even cared if he had growled, You’re a fucking little manipulator, Princesa, as long as I could hear more about my mother and this man.

Antonio turns to Fedorov with a scowl. “Remember that you’re talking about my wife’s mother. A woman who deserved respect not only in life, but in death.”

Fedorov meets my gaze. “I would never disrespect your mother. I cared about her too much.”

Whatever he has to say is more than just a tidbit. I can tell by his expression. “How did you meet her?” I ask impatiently, before Antonio changes his mind.

“I met Rosa when she was just a few years younger than you are now.” He pauses for a moment, a cloud of sorrow descending over him.

I brace myself to hear some awful news about my mother.

“My oldest daughter, Arina, was abducted,” he explains, with his hands steepled at his chin. “My family lived in Russia at the time. We searched and searched for her.” He shakes his head. “The signs all pointed to Porto. A shipment of girls had come through the city on its way to Morocco, but the traffickers knew we were onto them—checking boats and train stations, even the airport. We had men stationed on both sides of the border. They couldn’t leave the country. But we couldn’t find them, either.

“At that point, I was desperate. Then I got a tip to contact a young woman who was involved with distributing birth control and smuggling abused women out of the country. She worked with two friends, and they had lots of contacts all over the country, but I was advised to speak directly to her.”

“My mother?” I ask softly, butterflies swirling in my stomach.

He nods. “And yours,” he says, glancing briefly at Antonio, who doesn’t blink.

“It took us the better part of a month, but we found Arina. Your mother found her. Up north.”

“Was your daughter harmed?” I ask, hoping that my mother saved the little girl before the worst happened. She would have been crushed if they hadn’t gotten to her in time. I know it.

Fedorov’s eyes flare dangerously. “Girls who are abducted are always harmed. It’s just a question as to the extent. She hadn’t reached the destination, where she’d be auctioned like a piece of meat. So I guess you could say the harm could have been worse.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, darling. The men who hurt her paid dearly.”

Antonio studies Fedorov closely, considering every word that comes out of his mouth. As awful as it is, I’m sure this kind of information gives him some leverage over the Pakhan—or it might one day. I use Antonio’s newly found patience to probe about my mother, knowing full well the answers might tarnish my memory of her.

“You said you loved her. Was she married to my father at the time?”

He shakes his head. “She was betrothed to your father, and although she was resigned to her fate, she wasn’t all that excited about it.” He chuckles. “My love was unrequited. She never knew how I felt. Once I had my daughter, we went back to Russia. My family needed me, and your mother, who was more than a decade younger and about to be married, certainly did not.”

I imagine my mother in the pictures taken right before she married my father. She was beautiful, with long, dark hair, and thick, inky lashes. Spirited andfull of fun. She was like that all her life—her very short life.

I want to hear more. I’m hungry for every detail Fedorov’s willing to share.

Antonio pours us more coffee. I’m sure he wants to know more, too, although not for the same reasons I do.

“Rosa was beautiful and strong-minded, and courageous. Like you. A woman a man meets only once in a lifetime. We went into some unsavory areas. I made it as easy for her as I could, but it was rough at times. She never complained.”

“A young woman from an important family, betrothed. How was she allowed to go?” Antonio asks, tapping his fingers on the table.

“I was able to have her home nearly every night. Your grandmother,” he says, gazing at me, “covered for her. At one time, she had also been part of the resistance.”

“The resistance?”

He shrugs. “I don’t have another word for it. That’s what your mother called it.”

I glance at Antonio, who has done much more listening than talking, which is fine by me. I have enough questions for both of us.

“When did you move to Porto?” I ask, sipping my coffee slowly so that Antonio doesn’t get any ideas about leaving.

“Much later. After my wife and my youngest daughter died.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how painful it must have been for you.”

“Your mother gave me a legacy. Although we didn’t know it at the time. I would never have any more children. My middle daughter is unable to have children of her own—at least that’s what she claims,” he mutters. “But Arina has five daughters. They each sparkle more brightly than the sun.”

I smile. I wonder if she told my father. Dimitri Fedorov ended up to be a very powerful man, and she’d rescued his daughter. Although my mother would have rescued anyone’s daughter. Power and money meant nothing to her.

“Did my father ever know about any of this?”

He shrugs. “Not from my mouth. By the time I moved to Porto, her marriage—her reluctance to an arranged marriage—was in the past. Your father adored her, and she him. I owed her too much to ever interfere in her happiness. But I watched her from afar. She was an amazing woman.”

“You never said another word to either of them?” Antonio asks, with the suspicion only thinly veiled.

He has a way of turning every question into an interrogation. It’s especially irritating now.

“I had one or two business dealings with Daniela’s father over the years. And once or twice a year, I would see Rosa at a social function, but we never spoke. I sent a basket to your family on Christmas each year,” he tells me. “There’s so much gift giving at that time of year that I’m sure it went unnoticed.” This man, who my husband calls a ruthless monster,sounds almost wistful. “I made sure every basket included the nougat candy that I knew she loved.”

“Dipped in chocolate,” I say softly. Most of the baskets we received at the holidays went to charity. But there was one basket that my mother would always cut open—the one with the imported nougat. “I remember. She was always so excited about the candy.” Or maybe about her connection to the sender.

For a moment, I forget he’s the Pakhan of the European Bratva. He’s just a man who loved a woman he could never have.

“I have a confession,” Fedorov says, peering at Antonio. “Tonight was a bit of a ruse. I knew what kind of magic your wife wielded that could bring a powerful man to his knees—I’d experienced it from a woman who was so much like her.” He pauses for a beat. “But I wanted to see for myself that Daniela was safe. Here not as a prisoner, but of her own volition. I was fully prepared to rescue Rosa’s daughter, just as she rescued mine.”

My heart is melting, but when I glance at Antonio, I can almost see the steam coming out of his ears. Some confessions are best left for the confessional.

“Daniela,” Antonio says between gritted teeth, “Lucas will escort you upstairs. I need a word alone with our guest.”

I don’t want to go. I want to hear more about my mother, but I do as I’m told, because we’re here in exchange for Cristiano. I’m sure that’s what Antonio wants to discuss.

When I stand, Dimitri stands. “It was an honor and a pleasure, senhora. Your mother would be so proud of you. While I’m quite certain your husband will take good care of you, I’m at your service should you ever require assistance of any kind.”

“She won’t be requiring your assistance,” Antonio says pointedly.

Fedorov doesn’t backtrack, and he doesn’t blink. I have no doubt he doesn’t give a damn what Antonio thinks—not on this matter.

While the two men engage in a standoff of sorts, something occurs to me.

“You leave roses at her grave.” I don’t ask. I know it’s him.

“Only after your father died, and could no longer do it. I couldn’t take care of her in life, but I can care for her in death.”

My heart.

I want to throw my arms around him, but I don’t dare. “Good night, Mr. Fedorov. I do hope we’ll see each other again.”

He leans in to give me a kiss on the cheek, but stops short and turns to my husband. “May I?”

Antonio’s eyes flare dangerously. “No, you may not.”

I’m mortified by the unnecessary rudeness, and I feel the color rise in my cheeks.

Fedorov winks at me. “I would never harm you. But your husband’s right to be leery. I’m not a good man.”

Lucas appears to take me up to the landing pad before I have a chance to respond.