Maxim and I came to an understanding. It seemed mutually beneficial but it couldn’t last.
I was cared for, spoiled in a way I never could’ve imagined being possible. I had no bills, no need to work all the time, and I could relax without any obligations weighing me down. He kept me thoroughly sated, too.
The only thing I had to pony up was my freedom. I was a captive here. But I was safe.
So long as you don’t know that you’ve already knocked me up…
As a kept woman, I was still bored within his home, but as of the last week and a half, I was permitted clearance to roam outside his bedroom.
Nervous that he could mean it, that I could have permission to walk around outside his bedroom, I took a couple of days to explore the rest of his apartment. It was all elegant, well-furnished if overly masculine in style, and all very… expensive.
Nothing was cheap or generic here in his apartment level, and I could extrapolate that fact and assume this entire Ivanov building would show more of the same.
Meeting his brothers reinforced the assumption that Maxim’s Mafia family were very wealthy. Damon, Nik, and Saul were all just as suited up and distinguished, representing the family with a proper appearance and looking tailored with no expense spared.
The day I had lunch with them, I was flabbergasted by the opulence and extravagance of their dining room. The hallway from the open foyer where the elevator stopped to the dining room was fancy. The table and fine China we ate from were delicate and rare examples of fine craftsmanship. And the artwork on pedestals and hung on the wall were of museum quality.
I hadn’t merely been kidnapped.
I was thrust into the filthy rich world of the Mafia.
It was a hell of an adjustment to get used to, and I wasn’t sure that I’d linger long enough to feel spoiled any more than I already was. This wasn’t… I wasn’t part of this world. I was a scrappy stripper who survived on meager basics.
Yet, the longer I stayed and explored throughout the mansion, I had to imagine what it would be like to raise a child here. The whole place was enormous, run by polite house staff who blended in as the background. At least thirty people could live on the floors I’d been given access to. Between Maxim’s apartment and the three floors that most resembled a “family home”, I got lost several times and had to ask a guard or maid how to get back to the elevator.
None of them spoke to me, and I knew better than to ask them for help. They wouldn’t help me to escape. They’d only report back to Maxim that I was trying to leave.
But each day that I wandered, bored and awaiting Maxim’s return, I wondered why I would.
I had all my needs met.
I was spoiled and pampered and treated so well.
Was it really worth being a “free” woman when a man like Maxim could provide for me like this?
Yeah, it is, moron. Because as soon as you start showing and prove that you’re pregnant, he’ll take this baby and no longer need you.
I didn’t matter past the purpose of being bred.
And I wouldn’t matter as a mother to his child if he planned to take him or her and keep the baby in his family—not mine.
Slowing my pace as I strolled down a corridor, I watched my reflection in the massive mirror placed behind a side table. It reached from floor to ceiling, and the frame of the smooth glass had to be gilded gold, ornate in an artisan style that wasn’t at all contemporary or cheap. Like everything else, it wasn’t gaudy but was another piece of evidence of how rich the Ivanovs were.
I stopped, staring at myself in the sheet of glass. It was uncanny how I almost didn’t recognize myself anymore.
My hair was smooth and glossy, not abused with too much product from being on the stage.
My skin was flush and rosy, not pale from a poor diet and dehydration.
Dark bags were gone from beneath my eyes as I could now rest and sleep like my body needed to.
Instead of walking around in crappy secondhand clothes from the thrift store, I was wearing a brand-new and stylish T-shirt blouse and a soft skirt without rips or stains.
As I watched my reflection, I lowered my hand to my stomach and tried to picture it swelling with this baby.
With his baby. Maxim’s Mafia baby. His heir that he wanted to use me for.
Every time that I tried to convince myself to tell him that I was already pregnant from the first time that we met, I got scared and didn’t know what to do. I’d only been here for three weeks, and I bet he was well aware that it would be way too soon for him to expect me to be pregnant since kidnapping me. But we’d met weeks before that. With my best guesswork, I figured I was seven weeks along in this pregnancy.
And still, I was so very tempted to run and have this baby on my own.
Now that my eyes were opened wider, I saw how wealthy these Ivanovs were. They had a mansion of a building. They had staff. Security guards and an army. All of them could be trained to come after me and hunt me down if I took off. Defeated and dismayed, I took stock of all the resources Maxim would have to come after me if I were to run away like I needed to.
But what if I didn’t?
I walked away from the mirror, fretting over my situation, and ignored the large grandfather clock ticking off the hour. It was eleven now, and Maxim still hadn’t returned from wherever he’d left for an hour earlier, called to help with a situation not even two seconds after he’d come inside me.
What if he were to give our child all these resources too?
I would never worry about buying a diaper or running out of food. I wouldn’t be homeless and scraping by for a place to raise a child.
So hung up on the conviction that Maxim had to be the bad guy as the ruthless Mafia boss who killed others, I resisted the potential that he could also be good. That the sense of security and safety he made me feel was a blessing, not a trick.
“Ah!”
I lifted my head at the sound of a man crying out. Venturing near the kitchen area, I hurried ahead to see if someone was wounded. I was sure the Ivanovs had many enemies. All criminals did. But I also doubted that any of them could get in here, past all the guards.
“Hello?” I called out as I jogged toward the sound of pain.
This first floor of the mansion was open for me to access, not that anyone was ever around. Maxim’s brothers tended to stick with staying at their apartments in the building. I had yet to see this grandmother. The only other humans I saw were the maids, butlers, soldiers, and cooks.
That was who I found wincing in pain now. Hunched over near the stoves in the massive, state-of-the-art kitchen, was a cook. He seemed young, and I was ninety-nine percent certain he’d told me his name was Roger. None of the staff spoke with me past the most basic pleasantries, but I didn’t hold that against them. They were just doing their jobs. I had no doubt Maxim had likely told them all not to speak with me.
“Are you all right?” I ran up to him, worried about the blood dripping from between his fingers as he held his other hand tightly against his chest.
I didn’t worry about someone else here hurting me. No gunshot had gone off. Nothing indicated an intruder. Besides, all the shattered chunks of glass strewn all over the counter were proof enough that something had shattered and cut him.
“Oh, Miss Black. No. It’s all right.” He tried to turn and hide his injury from me, as if it would be a grave mistake to let a “guest” like me be bothered by his incident.
“Roger. You’re bleeding all over.”
“No, no.” He shook his head. “I’ll be okay.”
He took a step back and nearly slipped on the spilled oil on the floor.
I reached out to catch his elbow, stopping his fall. “Roger—”
“It’s Ronny, actually.”
“Ronny, careful.”
“No.” He shook his head as I tried to guide him away from the broken glass and toward the sink to rinse his cut hand. “You’re a guest and—”
“I am not a guest,” I snapped, not caring if I was too snarky. A guest? Maxim kidnapped me, and nothing would ever change that fact. I felt like a guest, but hearing someone else actually call me that was weird. The less I thought about why I was here, the better. “Just let me help you.”
“No, I insist.”
“I insist,” I replied curtly. “And you’re going to sit your ass down on that stool there and let me see.” Nevaeh used to tease me whenever I let my inner-city bitch come out, but I knew it was nothing more than impatience. I didn’t like to suffer fools, and Ronny was being ridiculous.
He obeyed, leaning on me as I guided him over the broken glass and helped him not to slip. Moving with me, he cringed as he held his fingers of his cut hand. “The oil vial must have gotten too hot and… it slipped right out of my hands.”
“Easy,” I said. “I’m sure you’re not the first cook who’s been human enough to drop something in the kitchen.”
“I know, but…” If he wasn’t busy leaning over the sink so I could rinse off his hand, he probably would’ve shrugged.
“Is there glass in the cut?” I asked, leaning with him, my arms parallel to his as I took over rubbing my fingers over his bloody hand to clear the site.
“I… I don’t know,” he admitted. “I… I’m on blood thinners. I have a genetic condition. That’s why I’m just a cook and not a soldier. I can’t take much blood loss and—”
“Easy,” I snapped, realizing he was on the verge of panicking. This poor, scared man. I shook my head and focused on cleaning his hand and bandaging it.
“What the fuck is going on?”
I jerked my head up, seeing that Maxim had arrived home.
He scowled, watching me close to Ronny as I helped him clean his bloody hand off.
Blood covered him, too. It was smeared on his face, his hands, and over his shirt, but he moved too fiercely and boldly for me to assume he’d been hurt.
That was someone else’s blood on him. As I sobered to the reminder that he was a ruthless man, a killer, I almost winced at how furious he was to see me helping this cook.
“Why the fuck are you touching her?” he growled, stalking toward us.
Ronny backed away, holding both hands up and trembling. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“He’s just bleeding,” I reasoned coolly as I tried to cover the gash on Ronny’s hand held midair. Blood dripped to the counter, splattering as the drops smacked down.
“Don’t touch him,” Maxim ordered me.
Well, fuck.
I furrowed my brow, realizing he wasn’t joking.
It looked like he wanted more blood on his hands, all because I’d tried to help this poor wounded cook, an innocent act of first aid.
“You belong to me,” he snarled before he reached out to yank me away from the sink.
