She lifts her face to me, her eyes bright with conviction.
“I will. I do.”
We prepare in silence. There are too many things to say that no one else can overhear. Now that our next step is here, I’m eager to take it.
I don’t like that when we leave, Erik and Yakov will be joining us, but it’s the smallest detail of what I dread next. I brought nearly nothing with me when I boarded, so only a small bag of my essentials remains when I take her off the ship. We’ve arranged for a rental car to be waiting for us when we leave, large enough to accommodate all six of us, and Yakov brings clothing for the girls. We’ll get more permanent transportation when we arrive at our new compound.
So many questions trouble me about what happens next. Will anyone in Boston recognize me? Or her? Are any of the Boston Bratva in league with her father? How will I manage to keep her from being shared by the other men if I offer her as tribute?
We exit the ship and a large black SUV waits for us beside the wharf. Erik, Yakov, and I load our luggage and situate the girls. I’m driving, Marissa is in the passenger seat, and the other four remain in the back. Tomas and the rest are waiting for us at the compound, the directions already loaded on my phone. I buckled Marissa in myself. It’s a hot, humid summer day in Boston, the wharf teeming with tourists and vendors. I need this but hate it at the same time. The busier it is, the less likely we are to being noticed or identified. The busier it is, the easier it is for someone to touch her. Look at her.
I want her alone in a tower, hidden from anyone else’s eyes but mine. I want to hold her to me and shield her from anyone and everything that could harm her. But to save her, I have to bring her to the heart of where the most pressing danger lies.
It’s a beautiful summer day in Boston, bright and sunny. Vendors sell their wares: t-shirts and souvenirs, hot dogs and cotton candy. Full blooms and greens decorate archways that cover walkways, and just beyond the busyness of the wharf, cobblestones line old-fashioned streets.
“It’s beautiful here,” Marissa says, looking out the window. “So different from—”
I give her a sharp look. She may not speak of where we came.
“The ship,” she finishes. She swallows hard and doesn’t meet my eyes. I hauled her over my lap for a spanking when she almost spoke my name aloud, and it’s more imperative now than ever that we keep our identity hidden.
The streets are so crowded with people, I have to focus heavily on navigating safely to the on-ramp to the highway.
“When does Tomas expect us?” Erik asks. I spoke to Tomas this morning, and he put me in charge of bringing us to meet him.
“Noon.”
We drive in silence until I get to the on-ramp. I glance at the GPS on my phone. “It should only take about fifteen minutes. He says traffic may be lighter this time of day.”
The on-ramp is crowded with people, and I hate the slow-crawl. I want to be there already. Today is the day we pay tribute to the Bratva, and hopefully gain the entry we need.
“Jesus,” Yakov mutters. “Tak mnogo lyudey.”
So many people.
“Eto dolzhno proyasnit'sya,” I respond. It should clear up. I meet his eyes in the rearview mirror. I wonder why he speaks Russian now. One of the criteria for admission to the Boston brotherhood is fluency in Russian, and if we speak our native language, he’s likely assuming the girls won’t know what we say. What he doesn’t know is that Marissa is fluent in Russian and speaks it as well as I do. I give her a quick, sidelong glance. We haven’t discussed this, but I don’t want her to reveal that she knows the language.
The other girls look downward, but there’s a palpable nervousness in the air. Yakov’s jaw is tight, his hand clasped on the leg of the girl beside him. Even Erik’s typically arrogant demeanor has diminished as he stares out the window. His arm is around his woman’s shoulders, but her body is held apart and rigid.
“YA khotel by byt' za rulem,” he mutters.
I wish I were driving.
I give him a sharp look, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. The bastard. He doesn’t like that I’m controlling this.
“I can’t make the traffic go away,” I tell him tightly, “but according to the directions, it clears up after the tunnel.” I try to keep myself aloof, and not let on that he affects me, but I’m already on edge not knowing what will happen next. My pulse races, and I grip the steering wheel tighter. Marissa reaches for my knee, and discreetly gives me a little squeeze. When she touches me, the tight coil inside me loosens a little. Still, I push her hand away casually, so the others don’t see. It wouldn’t do for anyone to notice any intimacy between us at all, though I can’t deny that even this little reminder from her helps calm me.