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"Where are you?" His voice was eerily calm now, but I could hear the rage simmering beneath.

"In the stairwell of my building."

"Don't move. Don't go anywhere." His tone was commanding, impossible to disobey. "I'm coming for you. Ten minutes, P??????. Hold on for ten."

The call ended, but his voice lingered, anchoring me.

I huddled in the cold stairwell, hugging my knees, trying to make myself small, invisible. Every sound—a creak, a footstep—sent my heart racing, certain the kidnappers had found me.

Seven minutes later, I heard engines. Not one car, but a convoy. Through the stairwell's tiny window, I saw at least four black sedans pull up, shadows moving in the dark—his men.

Gennady burst into the stairwell, and I nearly sobbed with relief. He was still in his dark suit, tie loose, hair messy, his green eyes blazing with a fury I'd never seen. Two towering bodyguards flanked him, scanning every corner like hawks.

"Cassie." His voice softened when he saw me, but his eyes stayed hard, deadly.

I threw myself into his arms, clinging to his waist, tears streaming down my face. His embrace was solid, safe, like a wall between me and the world.

"You're okay," he murmured, stroking my hair. "I'm here now."

But I felt the tension in his body, the barely restrained anger. It wasn't aimed at me—it was for the bastards who'd dared to come after me.

He held me tight, then turned to his men, his voice low and authoritative. "Lock down every exit in this building. Nothing gets in or out. Get the cleaners to sweep Cassie's apartment, top to bottom. Anything suspicious, I want it gone."

"Yes, sir," one of them replied.

"And," Gennady's voice dropped to a chilling growl, "find the fuckers who did this tonight. They need to learn that some people are off-limits."

Watching his sharp, commanding profile, my heart did a traitorous flip.

"Let's go, Cassie," he said softly, his tone shifting to something gentle just for me. "I'm taking you somewhere safe."

As we drove through Chicago's night, I realized we weren't heading to his estate. The route was wrong, veering into unfamiliar parts of the city. The buildings thinned out, replaced by high walls and dense trees. No neon lights, no crowds—just darkness and an unsettling quiet.

Where are we going?

I glanced at Gennady, wanting to ask, but his expression stopped me. He stared straight ahead, his jaw tight, his green eyes dark and unreadable, radiating a danger I hadn't seen before.

The car pulled up to a massive iron gate. When it opened, I saw what lay beyond—not an estate, but a fortress. Armed guards patrolled the perimeter, cameras covered every angle, and shadowed figures moved with military precision.

We passed checkpoint after checkpoint, each guard nodding to Gennady.

"Mr. Sokolov."

"Boss."

That word—Boss—hit me like a thunderbolt. I thought of the parking garage, the gunfire, the movies and books about the mafia. Boss wasn't just a title. It meant he wasn't some low-level thug. He was the kingpin, the head of a criminal empire.

I hadn't just fallen for a gangster. I'd fallen for a godfather.

The realization made me tremble.

The building was a modern fortress, all sharp lines and bulletproof glass, screaming power. Inside, more men bowed to Gennady, their respect palpable.

"Set Cassie up in a core room," Gennady told Aisor. "Twenty-four-hour protection, top priority."

"Yes, Boss," Aisor replied.

There it was again. Boss. Each time it landed like a hammer, rattling my nerves.