"How long has he worked for you? What exactly does he do? How deep is he in your world?"
"Twenty years," Dante says, moving behind his desk. "He started working for my father when you were just a child. Financial management, money laundering, tax avoidance strategies. Nothing violent, nothing that would put him in direct danger."
"Your father." The pieces click together in my mind. "Vadim Sokolov."
He nods, and something shifts in his expression. "You knew him."
It's not a question. I think about the kind older man who used to visit our house when I was growing up, who always brought me books and listened patiently to my endless chatter about school. Who attended my high school graduation and sent flowers when my mother died.
"Uncle Vadim," I whisper. "I always called him Uncle Vadim."
His expression tells me everything. I'm only beginning to understand my father’s role. All those visits, all those family dinners where Vadim Sokolov sat at our table and asked about my grades and my friends and my college plans—he wasn't just my father's friend.
He was his boss. His very dangerous, very illegal boss.
"He cared about you," Dante says quietly. "Used to talk about Richard's brilliant daughter and how proud he was of your achievements. Said you had more integrity in your little finger than most men had in their whole bodies."
Tears prick at my eyes.
"Because he was family,” Dante says quietly. “Not by blood, but by choice. That's how the Bratva works—loyalty creates bonds stronger than genetics."
The irony isn't lost on me. I'm sitting here, having just made love to the son of a man I genuinely loved. The man who was apparently the head of a criminal organization. My whole life has been touched by this world without me even knowing it.
"I had no idea," I say. "About any of it. The Bratva, what my father really did, who Vadim really was. I thought he was just a successful businessman who happened to be my dad's favorite client."
"Richard went to great lengths to protect you from this world. Different schools, different neighborhoods, layers of separation between his work life and his home life. He wanted you to have choices he never had."
"And now I'm here anyway."
"Now you're here anyway."
I lean forward, desperation making me bold. "Then you have to know he wouldn't betray your family. If he loved Vadim like a brother, if he spent twenty years building something with him, why would he throw it all away for money?"
"People do stranger things for five million dollars."
"Not my father." The conviction in my voice surprises even me. "Give me a chance to prove it."
Dante studies me. I can see him weighing options, calculating risks. "There's more evidence than what I've shown you. Things that would be difficult for you to see."
"I can handle it."
"Can you?" He opens a drawer and pulls out a thick manila folder. "This contains bank records, transaction logs, surveillance footage. If you're wrong about your father, if he really did steal from us, seeing this proof could destroy your relationship with him forever."
My hands shake as I reach for the folder, but I don't hesitate. "I'd rather know the truth than live with lies."
He slides it across the desk, his fingers brushing mine briefly. "I have a meeting. You can stay here, go through everything. But Hannah—if you find something you don't like, don't do anything stupid."
"Define stupid."
"Calling the police. Trying to warn your father. Attempting to leave the estate." His blue eyes bore into mine. "All of those things would end very badly for everyone involved."
I nod, clutching the folder like a lifeline. "I understand."
"Do you?" He stands and adjusts his shirt again. "This isn't a game."
"I said I understand."
He looks like he wants to say more, but his phone buzzes with what must be an urgent message. He checks it, his expression darkening.
