51. Viviana

Someone knocks on my door, but I don't respond. I don't even move.

Whoever it is, they'll come in if they want to. Actually, they'll come in if Mikhail wants them to. That's what everyone around here does: whatever Mikhail asks.

It's probably Anatoly or Stella. I swear they've drafted a rotating schedule. They've been in and out of my room all day, taking turns, trying to wear me down.

"Mikhail is a good guy," Anatoly said the first time I let him in. "I know he has imprisoned you in this house and isn't letting you or your son leave despite the fact you have well-documented claustrophobia, but it's for your own good."

Fine, maybe that isn't exactly what he said, but it's close enough.

Stella focuses her emotional appeals on Dante. "Dante looks to you to see how he should respond. If you seem happy, he'll be happy," she explained. "You have the power to make this a fun adventure for him."

It's genius, really. If I wasn't half a second from a mental breakdown, maybe I'd pull myself together and be there for my son.

But Dante is the exact reason why I haven't left this room since my panic attack this morning.

I've spent years of my life pretending things were fine when they weren't. But that well has run dry. I'm too exhausted to pretend. The best thing I can do for Dante right now is stay far, far away.

There's another round of knocking and I curl the blankets under my chin and stare at the door. As expected, after I don't answer a second time, the door slowly opens.

I grab a pillow, ready to hurl it at the ginormous target that is Anatoly's head. But it isn't Anatoly or Stella in the doorway; it's Pyotr.

"Hi, Viviana."

Mikhail's driver practically lives in his black suit and white button-down. Mikhail told me he doesn't enforce a dress code for the staff; Pyotr just likes wearing a suit. I've never seen him out of it.

I stare blankly at him, making it very clear how much I want him in my room right now. He gives me a tight smile of acknowledgment and holds out a tray of food. "I brought your dinner."

"I'm not hungry."

I've been nauseous all day. Panic attacks always leave me feeling like I'm hungover. Usually, a little fresh air helps, but, well… that's not an option.

"You should eat," he insists. "It will make you feel better."

I don't bother asking why Pyotr thinks he knows what is best for me. Everyone in this house acts like they know what is best for me. I'm tired of arguing with them about it.

"I can't believe they have you on servant duties," I snap. "With the house on lockdown, I guess there isn't much else for you to do. It's hard to transport people where they want to go when they are imprisoned."

His mouth tightens into a thin line. "Stella was worried you weren't eating. I volunteered to bring this up. She said you haven't been especially… welcoming."

"Because they haven't been especially empathetic," I bite back. "Everyone is so far up Mikhail's ass that they can't see how absurd this all is. I'm trapped here, Pyotr."

"I know."

"You say that, but—" I groan. "If I'd known this is how things were going to go, I would have tried harder to run after Mikhail brought us here. Actually, I would have stayed hidden. I would have kept moving again and again."

Dante would have been miserable starting over at a new school over and over again. It wouldn't have been sustainable.

Plus, even just the thought that these last few weeks with Mikhail never would have happened makes my stomach twist until I think I'll be sick. No matter how bad things are now, I can't bring myself to regret everything that has happened—just the way they've ended up.

"What I can tell you, Miss, is that no one is enjoying themselves right now."

It's the closest anyone on Mikhail's staff has come to criticizing him and it takes me by surprise.

"Careful," I warn. "I'm sure even the walls have ears around here."

He smirks. "If they did, I'd probably be fired by now."

I raise my brows. "Are you telling me you aren't on the straight and narrow like you appear?"

"I wouldn't go that far." He sits on the very corner of the bed, as far from me as possible. "But I have some… feelings… about what is happening to you right now. I've spoken my mind to a few people, but no one seems to feel quite as strongly about your situation as I do."

Since I moved in, Anatoly and Stella have been there for me. More than anyone in this mansion, I considered them my friends.

Was I wrong to trust them if they won't help me now?

"It makes sense," Pyotr continues. "They don't have the same background I do."

"What background is that?"

"One much like yours." He smiles, but there's so much sadness in his eyes that I reach over and take his hand. He squeezes my fingers gently. "My mother was forced into the mafia against her will. Her father was wealthy and married her off to the son of a don. When I was five, she took me and ran."

I frown. "Then why are you here working for Mikhail now? If she wanted you to get away from this lifestyle, why did you come back?"

"Because she died."

I gasp. "Did they find her? Did they…"

I can't even finish the thought. I've spent enough nights dreading what could happen to me—first, if Mikhail found me and Dante. Now, if I take Dante and run. I don't want to hear all of my worst fears confirmed.

"It was a car accident."

I sag. "Oh."

He lets out a humorless chuckle. "A little boring, right? She ran from danger, but it found her anyway. It was an ordinary accident. The sun was bright and she ran a red light. A truck T-boned our car on her side. She died and I survived. So I went back to live with my dad."

The story is heartbreaking, but one detail still sticks out.

"I'm sorry, but… why are you here?" I repeat. "I mean, your father was the son of a don. How did you end up as Mikhail's driver?"

"How did I fall so far from grace, you mean?"

My face flushes. "I'm sorry, I just?—"

"It's okay." He waves me away. "It's a fair question. The answer there is a bit mundane, too, I'm afraid. My mother didn't just run from my father because of his connections to the crime world. He was also a mean drunk. The drinking only got worse after she left and even worse after she died. By the time I was old enough to head out on my own, my grandfather had disowned my dad. We were living in a hovel on the edge of town without two pennies to rub together."

"So you applied to work for Mikhail?"

He shrugs. "My life taught me how to keep secrets. And even though I seem like I'm on the straight and narrow now, I have a decent-sized rap sheet. Mikhail knew I would never say a word against him because I have no interest in being noticed by the police. It was mutually assured destruction that sealed our working relationship."

"How romantic," I drawl.

"I respect Mikhail and I like working for him, but…" Pyotr lowers his voice like maybe the walls have ears, after all. "—that doesn't mean I agree with what he's doing to you, Viviana."

I give him a sad smile. "Thanks. If only sympathy could get me out of here."

He pauses. "Is that what you want? To get out?"

I blink at him. Is this a test?

"It's not exactly a secret that I'm not happy about being trapped here. The panic attack this morning probably clued a few people in."

"Being upset and wanting to leave are two different things." He's staring at me with an intensity that forces me to stare back. "Think about it, Viviana. Think through all of the possible benefits and consequences, and… if you do that and still want to leave, I'll help you."

"Why?" I blurt. "Why would you do that for me?"

He pats my hand with his. "I wouldn't be doing it for you. It would be for her."