Dimitri's Forbidden Submissive(130)

“What?”

Mr. Novikov began to scream in Russian and she stared in shock as he seemed to fill with energy, a brief hint of the man he’d once been shining through the shell of his fading body. Peter began to rush her out of the room but Mr. Novikov roared, “Stop!”

They both froze and exchanged a fearful expression before turning back to the madman on his death bed. His chest heaved and sweat made his sallow skin shine. He pointed at her with one trembling finger. “You have my protection, Rya. The Novikov Bratva will protect you, all of us and those loyal to us. You have my word.”

With that, he slumped back into the bed and grabbed his oxygen mask. A couple of older women in medical garb came in and Rya watched them tend to their patient for a moment before Peter hauled her out of the room. His phone rang and he answered it in Russian. After a minute of conversation, he was pale as snow and by the time they reached the hallway they were practically running. She was able to keep up in her boots but by the time Peter slowed down she was out of breath as he ended his call.

“What the hell is going on?”

Peter looked at her, really looked at her, then slowly smiled. “Mr. Novikov likes you.”

“That’s a good thing? He seemed pretty pissed when we left.”

“He was angry that Veldor harmed you. Mr. Novikov knows this will enrage Dimitri and he may never give Mr. Novikov a chance to make amends.”

“All of this was because Dimitri’s dad wants to apologize to him?” She shook her head and followed Peter through the mansion, taking in rooms where the furniture was covered with drop cloths. “Where are we?”

“The Novikov family estate.” Peter glanced over at her. “Once Mr. Novikov dies, this estate goes to Dimitri and Alex. If I was a betting man, I believe Dimitri will want to live at the summer home on the estate.”

“What?” She glanced around and took in the massive space. “Is this the summer home?”

“No, this is the winter home.” He stopped and pulled his phone out. “One moment.”

While he spoke in Russian she wandered down the hallway, looking at the different portraits on the walls. They seemed to be of the same man as he aged, starting out with a portrait where he was an infant in a bassinet fit for a king, all the way there where he stared out of the painting in full armor, the lines around his face deep, but his gaze was still fierce. She lingered there, seeing hints of Dimitri in the man’s features.

She was jerked from her examination of the portrait when Peter grabbed her arm. “Can you run?”

“Why?”

“Because Dimitri is about to shoot his way onto the compound and I need you to stop the bloodshed.”

“Fuck, give me your phone and call Dimitri.”

He handed it to her as they walked swiftly through the home and it went to voicemail. Pissed, she called it again, and again. By the time she called him for the fourth time Dimitri picked up and shouted something in Russian.

“Ouch, that was my fucking ear you just blasted,” she yelled into the phone. “Damn.”

“Rya?”

“Yes, it’s me, I’m fine. Stop whatever crazy Rambo bullshit you’re about to do.”

He sounded frantic in a way she’d never heard before as he said, “Why do you sound out of breath? Have you been harmed?”

“I’m out of breath because I’m running through your ungodly huge family mansion trying to get outside before you start shooting. And I’m in boots that were not made for running, so if you could just not kill anyone until I get there, that would be sweet.”

“You are okay,” he said with an audible sigh of relief. “Give phone to Peter.”

She did and Peter slowed down to a walk, nodding and speaking rapidly in Russian before handing the phone back to Rya. “Hello?”

“Stay with me, talk to me. I need to hear your voice as I come into this place that I swore I would never return to.”

“Okay, well, um I bought a desk today. Or maybe you bought it. Either way, I got you a new desk.”

“Tell me about it.”

She rattled through the details of the desk trying to remember what the sales lady had said about it while Peter led her to a gracious library with beautiful green and burgundy carpets and cream walls accented in gold. A fire burned in the fireplace and the whole room had a wonderful feel to it. Above the fireplace hung a picture of a woman with her hair piled atop her head wearing a sumptuous old fashioned gold dress. She had pale blonde hair and what must be the signature Novikov eyes, silver rimmed in black, captured by an artist hundreds of years ago.

Turning look at the picture, Rya said, “Dimitri, does everyone in your family have your grey eyes?”