Sinful Union: Chapter 14

Pavel has been a ghost since we returned from our honeymoon. He leaves early, returns late, and when he’s home, his mind is elsewhere. Once a day, he’ll offer a brief form of affection—always a fleeting moment in passing—before he’s out the door or vanishing into his office for hours on end, busy with meetings and phone calls.

It’s as if he’s performing the bare minimum in order to be considered an attentive husband, playing a role, and nothing more. There are no late-night touches. No whispered desires. No heated hands exploring my body, making me squirm as he buries his cock inside me.

I hate how much I miss it; how much I miss him.

I glance around the penthouse, trying to shake the thoughts away, but they cling to me like a shadow. His home is beautiful. A modern penthouse in Tribeca, with glass walls that frame the Manhattan skyline. Each room is tastefully decorated, furnished with sleek, modern furniture, expensive art on the walls, and plush rugs, straight from the pages of the latest design magazines.

It’s too perfect, too controlled. Too empty.

Everything is clean and precise, the reflection of a man who doesn’t like anything out of place. There are no personal touches. No family photos. No warmth. I imagine the only rooms he really spends any time in are his office and his bedroom.

It doesn’t have Ana, and that’s the worst part. I close my eyes, swallowing against the sudden tightness in my throat. I miss my girl with an intensity that nearly steals my breath. Being away from her this long has been nothing short of slow torture.

“Morning.”

I look up as Pavel steps into the kitchen, already dressed for the day. His sharp navy suit is tailored to perfection, his tie in a Windsor knot, his shirt starched and crisp. He looks good as far as fashion goes, but his eyes look exhausted, so much so that it catches me off guard. He’s been running himself ragged.

“Heading out?” I ask, taking a sip of coffee.

His lips twitch slightly, like he knows I’m fishing, but he doesn’t call me out on it.

“Meetings,” he says simply.

I nod casually, pretending not to care, hiding the fact that I wish he would stay. He crosses the kitchen in a few long strides, planting a chaste kiss on my cheek. Soft. Routine.

“Don’t get into trouble while I’m gone.”

“No promises.”

He chuckles, the sound low and genuine, then straightens, adjusting his cuffs before heading for the door. And just like that, he’s gone.

I don’t move right away, waiting to hear the sound of the elevator doors closing. I give it another few minutes, just to be safe, before slipping back into my room, grabbing my bag and phone. This is what has become routine now, a carefully crafted lie.

I step into the elevator, taking it down to the underground garage. The doors slide open, and soon I’m stepping out onto the streets of Tribeca—the place I now call home.

Everything about this part of Manhattan screams wealth. Glass-and-steel skyscrapers, luxury storefronts, the scent of espresso coming from the boutique cafes. The sidewalks are always clean, the streets always patrolled. It’s the kind of place where money moves silently, where power hums just beneath the surface. It’s beautiful.

And it’s suffocating.

As I slip into the back of one of our cars, the driver looks at me in the rearview mirror. “Going to visit your brothers today, Mrs. Fetisova?”

“Yes, Maxim, thank you.” We pull away from the towering skyline of Lower Manhattan, heading northwest, weaving through the streets until we reach Carroll Gardens. Then, the shift is instantaneous. Carroll Gardens is old New York: brick townhouses, tree-lined streets, brownstones that have stood the test of time. It’s charming in a way that Tribeca will never be. Warm, familiar, lived-in.

We slow in front of a modest but well-kept brownstone, its windows lined with flower boxes, its red front door slightly faded from the sun. Big hedges block the windows from view—Vlad’s way of keeping prying eyes from seeing inside.

My heart clenches. This is home.

I slip out of the town car and make my way up the stone steps. My fingers hover over the brass handle for just a second before pushing the door open. The driver and guard wait for me in the car, just as they have done on previous visits.

The warmth and nostalgia of the house wraps around me instantly. The faint smell of vanilla and sugar lingers in the air, a scent I’ve missed more than I realized. I barely have time to close the door behind me before I hear the sound of small feet padding against the wooden floor, followed by a squeal of joy.

‘Mama!’

She’s in my arms within seconds. A blur of dark curls and pink crashes into me, tiny arms wrapping around my waist. Ana nearly knocks me off my feet with the force of her hug. I love it, but it’s a reminder of how quickly she’s growing up, how every day I spend away from her is a day I miss seeing it happen.

I exhale sharply, my heart clenching as I scoop her up, burying my face in her hair.

“I missed you,” she says, her voice muffled against my neck.

I hold her tighter. “I missed you more, baby.”

She pulls back just enough to look at me, her big brown eyes filled with a question I already know is coming. “When are you coming home for good?”

A lump forms in my throat. How am I supposed to answer that? I smooth a hand over her curls, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Soon, my love.”

But I know that might not be true.

I hear the sound of heels clicking against the hardwood. I look up to see Camille Barbier watching us from the doorway. Camille is poised, polished, and effortlessly chic, like every French woman seems to be. She wears tailored slacks and a silk blouse. Her dark hair is swept into a simple, but elegant twist. She’s in her mid-thirties and has an air of effortless sophistication, but there’s warmth beneath it, a genuine fondness for Ana.

Camille has been with us since the day Ana was born. She’s a little bit of everything—a tutor, a nanny, a guardian when I can’t be here. She homeschools Ana, gives her structure, and keeps her safe. Camille, along with Vlad and Piotr, have been looking after Ana since I married Pavel.

“Mommy!” Ana says. “I want to show you something I drew!” With that, she’s off, leaving me and Camille alone.

“Kat,” she says in greeting, her French accent apparent. “Ça va?”

Ça va means “How’s it going?” in French. She already knows the answer to that.

“Same,” I reply. “I’m only a couple of miles away, but it feels like I’m in another state. How’s she been?”

Camille shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “She’s been asking for you every day. I don’t think she knows quite what to make of her maman not being around as much as she used to.”

“I know,” I say, a sadness in my voice. I think about how Ana hugged me when I first walked in. She held on for dear life, like she would never let me go. The guilt feels overwhelming, threatening to consume me.

Camille’s lips press together, as if weighing her words before speaking. She doesn’t approve of this arrangement—of me being gone while Ana stays here with Piotr and Vlad. But she never speaks against it outright. She knows better than to question the Bratva’s decisions.

“It shouldn’t be much longer,” I say.

“Hopefully not. A girl needs her mother.”

With that, Ana returns, a picture in her hands. “Look, Mommy!”

Camille walks forward, gently smoothing the bow on Ana’s dress. “You two have a lot to catch up on. I’ll let you be.”

“Merci, Camille,” I say.

She gives me a small smile before slipping out, her heels clicking with quiet finality.

Ana seems to forget all about the picture. It falls to the floor as she comes over for another hug.

“I really miss you, Mama.”

I swallow the lump in my throat, hating how much time I’ve lost.

“I miss you too, baby,” I whisper, tightening my hold on her.

“I don’t want you to leave again.”

I don’t know what to say. I can’t promise her that I’m coming back anytime soon. As long as Pavel lives, as long as her father lives, I have to be apart from her.

Ana lets go, stepping back. “Mommy, can you make me lunch?”

“I’d love to.”

For the next hour, I lose myself in the comfort of her presence. We make pelmeni together, her favorite. The dough is messy, and she gets more flour on herself than in the bowl, but I don’t care. She chatters the entire time, telling me stories about her lessons, her little fingers working carefully as I show her how to fold the dumplings properly.

When the food is ready, we sit down together at the kitchen table. She digs in with a happy sigh, her little feet swinging beneath her chair.

“I’m learning French,” she announces proudly between bites, stuffing another pelmeni into her mouth.

I smile, gently brushing a loose curl from her cheek. “I know, baby. How’s it going?”

Ana scowls. “Camille won’t let me speak Russian during lessons.”

I chuckle. “She’s trying to get you to focus on French during that time, my love.”

“But sometimes I forget the words. And she makes me look them up. It’s mean.”

I press my lips together to keep from laughing. “It’s not mean. It’s how you learn.”

She sighs dramatically, then quickly brightens. “I know some words now! Do you want to hear?”

“Of course.”

She sits up straighter, her little face turning serious. “Je m’appelle Ana,” she says carefully, then grins. “That means, my name is Ana.”

I smile. “Très bien, mon amour.”

Ana giggles, then scrunches up her face in concentration. “Je t’aime ma maman!”

My heart melts. “And what does that mean?”

I already know the answer, I just want to hear her say it.

She beams at me. “I love my mama.”

I pull her into my arms, kissing her forehead. “I love you too, my sweet girl. More than anything.”

She hums happily, snuggling against me. “You say it now, Mama.”

I whisper the words in French against her hair, holding her close, inhaling the warm, sweet scent of her. She loves to learn, to prove she’s capable, just like me when I was younger. The tenderness of the moment fills me; a rare peace settling within my chest. That is, until the door opens and footsteps approach from behind. I don’t have to turn around to know who it is. The tension in the air tells me before I even see him.

“Uncle Piotr!” Ana exclaims, her face beaming.

“There’s my little muffin!” Piotr strides over, scooping my daughter into his arms. With his free hand, he grabs a pelmeni and pops it into his mouth. I stay quiet, and he doesn’t fail to notice.

“Am I interrupting?”

“What are you doing here?”

He laughs. “I live here, remember? Part of the arrangement.”

“Fair enough. But don’t you have family business to attend to?”

The truth of the matter is, I want to spend time with my daughter—alone. The look on Piotr’s face, knowing and supercilious, suggests he stopped by for another reason besides saying hi to his sister.

“This right here is the only family business I care about at the moment.” He places a kiss on Ana’s forehead, then sets her down before settling into the chair across from me. “I told the guards to let me know when you come over.”

My spine stiffens. That’s new.

“And why is that? Are you keeping tabs on me?”

“No,” he says firmly, crossing his arms. “But if you’re going to be pulling a stunt where you slip away, then discreetly drop by for visits—something I don’t recommend, by the way—I want to know when it happens.”

I open my mouth to respond, but I don’t get the chance.

Ana picks up on the atmospheric shift in the room, her little face scrunching as she looks between us. “Are you mad at each other?”

I force a soft smile, reaching for her hand. “No, sweetheart. Everything’s fine.”

She doesn’t look convinced. She’s too perceptive for that.

Before she can ask anything else, however, Camille appears in the doorway. “Ana, time to get ready for ballet.”

Ana gasps, suddenly remembering. She scrambles out of her chair, excitement replacing her earlier concern. “Mama, my recital is in three weeks! You’re going to be there, right?”

Another lump rises in my throat. I’ve lost count at how many I’ve experienced since being here. Three weeks. Her father will be dead by then, and I’ll be back with her, where I belong.

I nod, forcing a smile onto my lips. “Of course, my love.”

She beams, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek before dashing off with Camille to get dressed for ballet class. She stops and looks back. “Love you, Mama!”

I watch her go, a twisting ache forming deep in my chest. God, I hate leaving her. I need to end this. But not in the way Piotr wants me to.

“Is she going alone?” I ask once she’s out of earshot. “I mean, with anyone besides Camille?”

Piotr cocks his head to the side. “Are you asking if Ana is protected? If she needs guards?”

I glance at him, wary. “Of course I am, and of course she does. She’s my daughter.”

Piotr leans back in his chair, watching me. “She’s safe at all times.”

That should reassure me, but it doesn’t. I don’t trust him anymore. I say nothing. Instead, I nod, then stand up, reaching for my purse on the counter.

“Going so soon?” he asks.

“Yes. I need to get back before Pavel does. I don’t want him asking questions.”

“I understand. But you and I need to chat before you leave.”

I stop cold, my fingers tightening around my purse.

“A chat? About what?”

“Just come to my office; we can talk in there.”

“Your office?”

He grins. “I set myself up in one of the spare bedrooms. It looks pretty good, if I do say so myself. Come on.”

Piotr doesn’t wait to see if I follow. He just expects me to, leaving the kitchen without another word.

I stare after him for a long moment, a slow burn of irritation creeping up my spine.

I follow with a bitterness in my throat I can’t stand to swallow.