8
HANNAH
The SUV winds through increasingly exclusive neighborhoods until we reach gates that wouldn't look out of place protecting a government facility. Tall iron bars topped with decorative spikes that I'm pretty sure aren't just decorative. I would guess they are defense like barbed wire around a prison. There are cameras positioned at strategic angles, and guards who nod respectfully as our vehicle passes through.
How rich is this guy?
The estate beyond the gates is massive—not just big house massive, but legitimate compound massive. Manicured lawns stretch in every direction, dotted with mature trees that probably cost more than most people's cars. The main house rises before us like something out of a movie. White brick that seemed to stretch on forever. I couldn’t see the entire house, but my experience with real estate told me it was at least ten thousand square feet.
"Welcome to your new home," Dante says as we pull up to the front entrance.
"Temporary accommodations," I correct, though my voice lacks conviction.
"We'll see."
Last night I accepted my fate. I told myself I just had to survive a week. When he opened the door this morning, he announced we were moving to his house outside the city.
A house was not the right word for this place.
A man in an expensive suit opens my door before I can do it myself. I resist the urge to thank him. I'm not a guest here. I'm cargo. There's a difference, even if everyone wants to pretend otherwise.
The front door is solid wood with iron hardware that looks like it could stop a battering ram. Which, considering what I now know about Dante's line of work, it probably could.
But when we step inside, something unexpected happens. The house... it doesn't feel like a fortress. It feels like a home.
The entryway opens into a living space that's warm and inviting, with comfortable furniture that looks actually lived-in rather than staged for a magazine shoot. There are books scattered on side tables and family photos in frames that don't match but somehow work together.
"This isn't what I expected," I admit.
"What did you expect?"
I think about it. "Marble statues, maybe some medieval weapons on the walls. A throne made of skulls."
The corner of his mouth twitches. "Well obviously the throne is in the throne room.”
Despite everything, I almost smile. Almost.
"Your room is upstairs," he says, but I'm already moving away from him, drawn by something I can barely hear.
A soft voice, singing in what sounds like Russian. The melody is hauntingly beautiful, rising and falling like a gentle breeze. I follow the sound without really thinking about it, my feet carrying me toward the living room.
That's where I see her.
A little girl sits cross-legged on the carpet, surrounded by art supplies, completely absorbed in her drawing. She can't be more than seven, with dark hair that falls in soft waves around her face and blue eyes that are very familiar.
She looks up when she senses me watching. Her face breaks into a smile that's so pure, so genuinely happy, that it takes my breath away.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out this is Dante’s daughter. She’s the spitting image of him.
Dante has a daughter.
"What's your name?" I ask.
I can feel him in the room, but he says nothing.
"Mila. Do you want to see what I'm drawing?"
I sink down onto the carpet beside her, my legs suddenly unsteady. "I'd love to."
