Because somewhere in this house was a little boy who had chosen me—me—with a trust so instinctive it felt sacred. And somewhere deep inside me, beneath layers of survival and guilt, the ghost of my sister whispered that maybe—just maybe—Ruslan Baranov knew what had happened to her.
Or worse.
I followed Petros up a floating staircase of glass and steel, each step echoing faintly, my heart pounding too loud in my ears. I wondered how long I could pretend to be brave before the monster in the immaculate suit decided my usefulness had expired.
The staircase opened into a vast corridor, then into an enormous living room.
I stopped short.
The space felt less like a house and more like a temple—ancient Greece resurrected and reimagined through obscene wealth and modern brutality.
Tall fluted columns rose from polished travertine floors, their capitals carved with acanthus leaves and stylized griffins.
Between them stood life-sized bronze statues of Greek heroes—Hercules frozen mid-labor, Achilles caught in the moment before violence, Apollo poised with his lyre. Discreet spotlights bathed the metal in warm light, making the figures gleam like molten gold.
A massive fresco dominated the far wall: the gods of Olympus feasting atop Mount Olympus, painted in deep indigos, rich reds, and burnished golds. Zeus reclined at the center, thunderbolt resting casually at his side, expression bored—as if omnipotence itself had grown weary.
The furniture echoed the same theme—low, curved sofas upholstered in crimson velvet, bronze tripod tables, and a long dining bench that looked as though it had been lifted from a Mycenaean palace.
It was breathtaking.
It was terrifying.
My gaze drifted to one statue set apart from the others.
It stood near the grand staircase, taller, commanding the room without effort. Carved from white Pentelic marble so pure it almost glowed, the figure was unmistakable.
Ruslan Baranov.
Same broad shoulders. Same sharp jaw. The same dangerous stillness captured perfectly—muscles at rest, but coiled, ready. The sculptor had even rendered the eyes in obsidian inlay, giving the illusion that the statue watched whoever dared enter the space.
I felt exposed under that gaze, as though even stone could judge me.
“Isn’t this... Ruslan?” I asked quietly, my voice barely carrying.
Petros glanced over, unimpressed. “Yes. A gift from an Athenian sculptor who owed him a favor.”
Owed him.
I swallowed. I couldn’t look away. The statue stared back—cold, beautiful, eternal. A man turned myth by the fear of others. A king carved in marble while still very much alive.
What kind of man commissioned—or accepted—his own likeness as a god among gods?
Petros cleared his throat, the sound snapping me back to the present. “You can admire the house later, ma’am. I have other duties. I just need to show you your room.”
My room.
The word landed heavier than it should have.
I tore my gaze away from the marble king and followed Petros up the floating staircase, my bare feet whispering against glass and steel. The higher we climbed, the quieter the house became, as if sound itself knew better than to linger too long in Ruslan Baranov’s domain.
At the end of the upper hallway stood a door that didn’t just suggest power—it announced it.
The panels were thick oak, dark and ancient-looking, inlaid with intricate meander patterns picked out in gold leaf, the same endless Greek key design that symbolized eternity.
The only sign we were still in the twenty-first century was the matte-black hardware and the discreet digital panel set flush into the wall beside the frame. It looked less like a bedroom door and more like the entrance to a vault—or a temple.
Petros stopped beside it. “Press your thumb three times on the scanner.”
