Page 51 of Corrupt: XXX Vadim 2
“Ready to go on an adventure?” I run upstairs just to grab a jacket from the closet, then I open the door to the terrace and lead her outside. Taking her hand, I let her show me the route she took the other day.
“How did you even know where to go?” I ask, already hopelessly confused by the vast expanse of nature rendering this section of the grounds a virtual wilderness.
“Nautical navigation,” she says, a rare hint of excitement seeping into her voice. She has Biphany clutched under one arm, but curiously it looks like she left It behind.
“Oh,” I say, nodding. “Nautical navigation... Which in English means?”
She giggles in that rare, fleeting way. “Like the pirates used,” she adds in response to my puzzled expression. Lifting her tiny fingers, she points in two opposing directions. “Longitude and latitude—the lines that go on a map like this. Then you use the position of the sun—” she points up above. “And cardinal directions, you know—east, west, north, south. You use those to estimate your position on the axis. Then you just calculate from there. If I assume that we were fifty feet out on the water, then Ainsley lives roughly…” She counts on the fingers of her free hand. “One point seven five miles west of our house. See? It’s easy.” Whatever expression she sees on my face makes her giggle, shaking her head. “It’s basic calculations. Even a baby could do it.”
“Yeah,” I say, almost stunned into silence. “Basic…”
Still grinning, she surges ahead, tugging me behind her, and all I can do is follow, seeing the world as a seven-year-old might. An exceptionally bright seven-year-old who is far too perceptive for her own good. Vadim and Maxim may have a proverbial ocean of emotional distance between them, but a child has no trouble cutting through the physical boundaries. Which isn’t much. Once upon a time, these properties were connected, it seems, linked by a series of dirt paths that are now barely visible in the underbrush.
And yet, as a testament to the vastness of both properties, Maxim’s is still a good twenty or thirty minutes’ walk at the brisk pace of an eager seven-year-old. If Maxim is anything like Vadim in terms of security, I half-expect a gruff, gun-toting equivalent of Ena to come bursting from the shadows the second we breach the boundary of his land. Instead, we emerge from the woods relatively unscathed—though I sense eyes on the back of my neck with every step we take toward the modest, cozy-looking mansion on the hill.
Maxim’s property is laid out much in the same way as Vadim’s. There is a stable on the far edge, set amongst a series of sprawling, fenced-in fields. Beyond that is a rocky shore with its own private dock. The house even has a pool, barely visible from this angle.
Inhaling deeply, I take Magda around the perimeter of the property, heading toward the house proper. The second we step onto a paved stone path snaking to the front door, it opens, and a man in a suit steps out. He’s dapper, with graying hair and gentle though guarded eyes. I recognize him instantly as the man who drove me home after Vadim made a spectacle of me at Maxim’s dinner party.
Small world.
“May I help you?” he asks, smiling warmly. The politeness catches me off guard, and some of my unease dissipates a fraction.
But before I can open my mouth, Magda steps forward. “I want to play,” she says. “Is Ainsley here, sir?”
I gape at her even as my heart melts at her sweet tone. Like father like daughter. She knows when to turn on the charm. It doesn’t hurt that even in her more casual outfit, she still looks like a little princess with her braids adorned with green ribbon and Biphany tucked under her arm—I now suspect that leaving the less innocent-looking It at home was a calculated choice.
One that turns out to be devastatingly effective. The man blinks at the overload of girlish energy. But in a testament to his professionalism, he doesn’t break completely.
“I’m not sure if Ms. Ainsley will be able to play today,” he says carefully, cutting his gaze to me. “But I will ask.”
He disappears inside the house, and not even a second later, the door flies open, and a tiny figure skips out.
“You came!” Ainsley bounds down the path, sporting a pink equivalent to Magda’s casual sweater and jeans. Her loose hair flows over her shoulders as she bounds toward us. “Can we go play, Frankie? Huh?”
She directs the question toward the slender figure who appears in the doorway behind her. Cautiously, the woman’s dark eyes meet mine, and I sigh in response.
“Can we talk?” I ask her as the girls ignore us, already skipping off together, holding hands. Their innocent joy makes it painfully apparent just how foolish this is—the adults being nervous at the prospect of a budding friendship merely because of two men who hate each other. It’s laughable in theory. But not so trivial once I recall how the brothers react when in the same vicinity.
I feel like a general, going behind her leader’s back to forge a truce behind enemy lines. Yes, on the one hand, every small ounce of peace is a victory within itself. On the other hand, treason is punishable by death, and even Ena didn’t care to sugar coat things.
Mr. Vadim kill you.
But the time for any doubt has sadly passed. Tentatively stepping forward, Francesca nods, and I suspect she’s of the same mind. In unison, we watch the girls giggle, muttering conspiratorially, and any lingering misgivings I may have held vanish.
“Come on, Ainsley,” Francesca calls, her expression strained. “Let’s go into the back yard.”
* * *
It isa strange thing to sip lemonade behind enemy lines for the sake of a playdate. I add the experience to the growing list of“things I thought I’d never do during my journey to sexual exploration.”
Stoically, Francesca sits beside me on a wooden lounger while we both watch the girls play on a section of grass across from a spacious pool. Here, the similarities between Maxim and Vadim’s properties end. Maxim’s is lived in, for one—a landscape of toys and skateboards bustling with activity. I catch several other faces peering out from the windows at times.
“I know this puts you in an awkward spot,” I say to break the ice as Magda and Ainsley chatter away. “But when you have a seven-year-old stuck in the house for a week, it gets hard to deny her request for human interaction. And she’s so darn cute.” I crack a smile.
And so does my opponent. She really is beautiful in an understated way, with curling dark hair and brown eyes.Hauntedeyes. A black dress with short sleeves reveals the bare skin of her arms—a sight I am desperately preventing myself from staring at.
They’re covered in scars. Vicious, healed scars.
