Relief crashed into me so hard it was almost pain.
Then he continued, voice suddenly very serious. Older somehow. Purposeful.
“Put on your best suit and come immediately to St. Maribel’s Chapel. Right now.”
I blinked, certain I’d misheard him.
“What?” I asked stupidly.
“It’s very urgent,” he repeated, each word precise, rehearsed. “Make sure you dress your best and look like a groom. And yes,” he added, as if anticipating my next question, “I really am okay.”
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone like it might start speaking again if I willed it hard enough. My reflection stared back at me from the dark screen—eyes wide, face stripped of its usual mask of command.
Dress like a groom?
My mind raced, grasping at threads that refused to align. A chapel. A groom. My son speaking for the first time in three years, not in fragments or whispers, but in full sentences—clear, deliberate, urgent.
This wasn’t a ransom call.
This was something else entirely.
I shoved the chair back so hard it scraped violently across the hardwood floor, the sound sharp and jarring in the quiet study. I was moving before thought fully caught up with instinct—storming out into the corridor, long strides eating distance, my pulse hammering with a cocktail of fear, disbelief, and something dangerously close to hope.
The master suite swallowed me in muted light.
I yanked open the walk-in closet, fingers already searching. Charcoal three-piece Tom Ford suit—tailored in Milan last year, still sealed in its protective plastic like an artifact waiting for a ceremony I’d never planned to attend. White dress shirt, crisp and untouched. Black leather oxfords polished until they reflected the ceiling lights like dark mirrors. Cufflinks engraved with the Baranov crest—an heirloom symbol that had sealed more alliances than vows ever could.
I dressed with the brutal efficiency of a soldier arming himself for combat.
Buttons fastened. Vest smoothed. Jacket settled across my shoulders like familiar armor. The silk tie—deep red, the color of fresh blood—knotted with mechanical precision. Every movement was controlled, automatic, honed by years of discipline.
I caught my reflection in the full-length mirror.
Sharp. Controlled. Lethal.
A groom, perhaps.
But more than that—a father who would burn the world down if anyone had dared lay a hand on his child.
I grabbed the keys to the black Lamborghini Aventador from the dresser, the carbon-fiber fob cold and reassuring in my palm, and strode out without another glance back.
Two members of my security detail straightened instantly in the foyer, their expressions shifting from routine alertness to open surprise at the sight of me fully dressed and moving with purpose.
“Boss?” one of them asked. “You’re heading out?”
They knew my schedule was ironclad. Unscheduled movements were vulnerabilities. Security nightmares.
“I’ve found Yannis,” I said.
The effect was immediate. Shock flashed across their faces, then vanished beneath professional resolve.
“Understood,” one said, already tapping his earpiece.
I didn’t wait for questions, explanations, or protocols. I slid behind the wheel, the engine roaring to life like a caged beast finally unleashed. The vibration traveled up my spine, grounding me, sharpening me. As I reversed out of the driveway, tires screamed against the pavement.
Three blacked-out SUVs fell in behind me, formation tight, lethal, automatic.
