Page 55 of Trapping His Angel
Maybe there was someone I could trust.
But not now. Not while it was all so fresh. We got out of the bath and got dressed. It wasn’t an awkward silence. It was simply quiet between us, as we each focused on our thoughts.
Before I knew it, we were heading out of the mansion.
Benedikt took me to the outskirts of Russia, where his house was. We must’ve taken the scenic route, because servants were moving our things in when we finally arrived.
“Welcome to our home.” He grinned.
It was like leaving the city turned him into a whole different person. His energy felt lighter, and his smile was more natural. Was this the real Benedikt? Carefree and joyous.
We stepped out of the car, and I gazed up at the structure.
The mansion was massive, yet reserved, with few visible windows, each framed in deep wood and protected by iron shutters, that seemed designed to withstand more than just the elements. The windows themselves were high and narrow, fitted with frosted glass, diffusing the light within to a cold, ambient glow. Around the base of the mansion, an intricatewrought-iron fence surrounded the grounds, adorned with sharp, Nordic-inspired flourishes, and Bratva symbols etched into the posts.
Benedikt swept me into his arms and carried me over the threshold. I let out a gasp of surprise and wrapped my arms around his neck tightly. I couldn’t bear to look at his eye, so I took in my surroundings.
Inside, the decor was grand yet minimalist. Dark, polished wood lined the floors, and stone fireplaces graced nearly every room, their ornate mantels adorned with ironwork, and subtle carvings of ancient Slavic symbols. Long, dimly lit corridors connected the various wings, and high, vaulted ceilings echoed with a sense of old-world luxury. Heavy tapestries and fur-lined drapes covered the walls, adding warmth and absorbing sound, creating an almost reverent silence throughout.
“Your home is lovely,” I whispered.
“Our home,” Benedikt corrected as he looked down at me.
“Ours,” I murmured, but I couldn’t help but feel like this life was going to come tumbling down. I didn’t know how awful it would be. I guess I didn’t want to know.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The peaceful veneer of life, between Brotherhood business, had its limits. Isadora settled into our home well enough, her smile sweet and welcoming every time I walked through the door. But beneath that wifely exterior, she carried the weight of her past like a shadow. Her father, an elusive bastard, remained a ghost, untouchable and unseen. My men couldn’t find him. They had no description, no concrete details, as if he didn’t even exist beyond the whispers of his influence.
Isadora’s memories were no better. Every time I pressed her for details, her face would grow pale, her hands twisting in her lap, as she struggled to recall. But the harder she tried, the fuzzier the image became. It was as if her mind refused to let her remember, a defense mechanism against the monster she’d fled. I hated forcing her to dredge up those memories, but I needed answers. I needed him.
Makari’s disappearance gnawed at me. He hadn’t been answering his phone and, when he did, his text responses were curt and evasive. I hadn’t seen him around the mansion in days.He’d always been reclusive, but this felt different. It wasn’t just the absence; it was the silence, the way he’d avoided me entirely.
I’d swept through the Petrov mansion one last time, irritation simmering just beneath my skin. No sign of Makari. No updates on the cartel’s plans. Nothing. My patience thinned to a dangerous edge. If he was off playing with that Yakuza girl again, he’d have a hell of a lot to answer for. She was a vicious little thing and, if he wasn’t careful, she’d do more than scratch him. She’d rip him apart.
Worry twisted in my gut, as I drove to his penthouse. It was his favorite hideaway, one of the few places he could retreat to, when the world became too much. If he wasn’t there, I didn’t know where else to look, and I didn’t like that feeling.
The valet barely glanced at me as I strode inside, the tension radiating off me enough to keep him silent. I scanned my finger to access the penthouse floor, the elevator ride feeling slower than usual. My hand tightened on the gun at my hip.
The momentI stepped into the foyer, the sharp metallic scent of dried blood hit me. My eyes swept the room, and there it was; spattered on the floor, dark and crusted. I knelt, touching it briefly. It had been there for days. The scene felt wrong. Silent. Too still.
Gun drawn, I moved through the penthouse, each step calculated, my senses sharp. When I reached the second floor, a force slammed into me, knocking me back.
Hair—wild, black, everywhere. Her brown skin was scratched and bruised, her eyes feral, like an animal caught in a trap. She clawed at me, her nails raking against my forearms as I grabbed her wrists, twisting them just enough to make her stop.
“Kaida,” I growled, recognition flashing as I stared at her wild, furious face. “Calm the fuck down.”
She froze, her chest heaving as her eyes narrowed. “How do you know my name?” she spat, her voice sharp and raw.
“Because I’m with the Brotherhood,” I snapped. “I helped rescue you. Now tell me where the hell Makari is.”
She hesitated, her gaze darting toward the hallway. Slowly, she nodded, biting at her chapped lip. She turned without a word, her movements stiff, and led me down the hall. I didn’t lower my gun, not trusting her for a second.
The bedroom door creaked open and my stomach dropped. There, on the bed, was Makari; a lifeless lump wrapped in gauze, his breathing shallow, his face pale. I moved closer, my jaw tightening as I took in the sight of him. His mouth was covered, his chest rising and falling unevenly.
“What the fuck happened to him?” I demanded, turning to Kaida.
She didn’t meet my eyes, her gaze fixed on the floor. She shrugged, her shoulders trembling. The lie was obvious, painted all over her guilty expression.