I can feel it in the way his eyes flick toward mine and away again, like a man trying too hard to look unbothered. The meeting, the polite smiles, the pitch about “collaboration”—it all clicks into place in one sharp, cold instant.
This was never about business.
He wanted me here. Away from the mansion. Away from her.
I lean back in my chair, my jaw tight. My pulse thunders in my ears as I replay Mikhail’s message. A black SUV breaching the perimeter. No names. No details. Just don’t worry.
But worry is all I can do.
My hand itches to reach for my gun, to end this polite charade before it even starts. I study Viktor again—his lazy smile, his casual posture—and every instinct in me screams that he’s the kind of man who smiles right before the knife goes in.
I let Viktor finish, then I stand. The chair legs scrape the floor; it sounds louder than it should in the glassed room.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, voice flat. No promises, no gratitude. He nods, satisfied, convinced he’s done enough.
I turn and walk out.
Every step to the door is a test. Part of me expects the room to explode, for faces to move, for a gun to whisper from a pocket. I wait for the small, betrayed surge of motion that would confirm the setup—the twitch of a sleeve, the shift of a foot—but Viktor doesn’t flinch. He raises his glass in a casual toast as if I’m leaving after a pleasant negotiation.
Outside, the air hits me cold. The SUVs are still where they parked; the men who escorted me are calm, composed. Imove toward my car, my senses tuned to everything: the scrape of gravel underfoot, the distant clank of crane chains, the shift in the light. My hand goes to my holster half out of habit, half because the law of the street says you react first and ask questions later.
Nothing happens.
I slide behind the wheel, the leather cool under my palms. For a beat, I sit there, engine idling, listening to the dockyard breathe. Then I drive away, watching the rearview until the lot falls behind me.
Once I’m far enough from the dock, the calm breaks.
My foot slams the accelerator, and the tires screech against asphalt, the car lunging forward like it’s alive. The city blurs past in streaks of steel and concrete. My pulse hammers in my ears louder than the engine.
I yank my phone from my pocket and call Mikhail. It rings once, twice—no answer. I try again. Nothing. The third time it goes straight to voicemail.
“Come on, Mikhail,” I snarl, gripping the wheel so hard my knuckles pale. Every second without an answer tightens the noose around my throat.
Traffic means nothing now. I cut lanes, blow through a red light, earning a blast of horns. My mind keeps cycling the same image: Sasha alone in that house. Her face when she flinched from me this morning.
I try Mikhail again.
Still nothing.
Something’s wrong. I can feel it.
I floor it harder. The world narrows to the road, the growl of the engine, and the single thought pounding through my skull—Get home.
I screech to a halt outside the house, gravel spraying beneath the tires. From the outside, everything looks normal—the gates are intact, the guards are at their posts, nothing looks out of place. But I know better. Normal is a mask, and right now, I can’t trust anything I see.
I shove the door open and stride inside, my heart pounding so loud it’s all I can hear.
The moment I step into the foyer, I freeze.
Sasha stands there—barefoot, trembling, eyes wide with shock. There’s a hairline crack running through the porcelain vase at her feet, shards scattered across the marble. A man lies sprawled beside it, motionless, blood trickling from his temple.
My gaze darts from her to the man and back.
“Sasha.” My voice is low, too calm for the chaos in my chest.
She startles at the sound, her lip trembling. “He—he broke in. I heard something near the door, and when I came out, he tried to grab me. I didn’t think, I just—”
She looks down at the vase, at her shaking hands. “I hit him, Lev.”
