Page 1 of Her Vicious Angel

1

CERISE

As my plane descended into Moscow, I wondered what thefuckI had been thinking.

But the money was too good to turn down.

After doing a PhD in Russian iconography I was drowning in student loan debt and working as a low-paid adjunct to barely make ends meet.

At first the offer seemed like an obvious scam. “Dear Dr. Cerise St. Just,this is a job offer. You will get paid $2.5 million American dollars to move to Russia and marry my son Andrei Petrovic.Don’t ask questions.” It was signed Grigoriy Petrovic. After googling their names, I learned that Andrei was a hot blonde Russian billionaire and I immediately threw the letter away. The fathers of hot blonde billionaires did not need to send for mail-order brides.

But then I got a call from someone now offering me $5 million dollars. The voice on the other end was careful and precise, the voice of an accountant or lawyer, and he said my job would be to “provide cover” for Andrei’s “unnatural tastes and proclivities.”

Whatever his unnatural proclivities were, they were apparently startling enough for his father to want to pay me $5 million dollars to cover them up. I wondered what these proclivities might be. What could possibly be considered so horrifying for a billionaire who looked, if his pictures were accurate, drop-dead gorgeous? Hot blonde billionaires usually got to do whatever thefuckthey wanted.

I decided he must be gay. His family must want me to be a cover for his secret boyfriends. Therefore, it was perfectly safe to move to Russia. He would be busy with his secret boyfriends and the theater businesses Wikipedia informed me that he owned. We would probably lead separate lives!

There was nothing tying me to America. I had been an only child and my parents were both dead. I had recently broken up with my boyfriend, who had quit his job to focus on bitcoin. If I did this for a few years, I could easily convince Andrei Petrovic to let me move back to the U.S. Plus, I had always wanted to visit Russia.

I had always been the good girl, the responsible girl, the cautious girl. And now at 30 years old I was flat broke with no boyfriend, and I lived in a leaky fleabag apartment. Maybe I would never get another chance to do something wild and unexpected.

So I booked a one-way flight, put my stuff in storage, and did it.

On the way over, I wondered why I had been chosen. I was short, with wild curly brown hair that sprung out of every bun I tied it in, a tiny sprinkling of freckles on my face, light hazel eyes, and I was round and overflowing everywhere. I had round hips, a little round belly, and overflowing breasts. I looked like a hedge witch in a children’s story, not fancy and elegant like I imagined a theater billionaire’s wife to be.

There was a tight ball of fear forming in the pit of my stomach as my plane slowly descended into the Moscow airport. It was the middle of January, and all I could tell was that everything looked harsh and frozen.

My anxiety increased as I walked through the sleek, bright airport terminal. Two of Grigoriy Petrovic’s assistants were supposed to pick me up at the airport and take me to Andrei. But instead of the scrawny pencil-pushers I expected, they were both great hulking men in ill-fitting suits. Their faces were battered and unfriendly. They looked like hired goons.

“Cerise St. Just?” one of them asked.

“Yes,” I said nervously, wondering if I should have dressed more formally. I was just in gray yoga pants and a gray sweatshirt. But it had been a long-ass flight.

“Are you taking me to meet Andrei?”

“Yes,” the first hired goon said, grabbing my suitcase.

“What’s he like?” I asked, then realized how foolish I sounded. Hired goons were not allowed to opine on their billionaire boss.

“He has a lot of names,” one of them said. “The Angel of Death, Lyutsifer, the Morning Star.”

I turned this information around in my head. These names all had a distinctly apocalyptic feel to them.

“Why?” I finally said, as I hurried to keep up with them.

But this time they didn’t answer me.

“He doesn’t like to be kept waiting,” was all the other hired goon said.

I followed them outside into the frigid January air. I gasped as hard, icy snowflakes hit my cheeks. I would need a bigger coat.

I felt another stab of fear as I realized they were shepherding me into an unmarked limousine, and I jerked away from them.

“What does a theater owner need with an unmarked car?” I asked, feeling on the edge of hysteria. “Where’s the proof you’re really with the Petrovic family, and not here to kidnap me or something?”

The first man looked as surprised as a man with a cauliflower ear can.

“Here in Russia, you wouldn’t kidnap Andrei Petrovic’s woman if you wanted to live,” was all he said before he shoved me into the back of the car.

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