I stare at my phone, heart hammering against my ribs. Her fear was real, that crack in her perfect armor when I mentioned Sergei's name. She's terrified of him, and that tells me everything I need to know about how dangerous my family really is.
What are you hiding, Mother?
I pull up my contacts, scrolling to a number I haven't used in years. Wesley Cahill, private investigator, discreet as hell, expensive enough that only people with real secrets hire him. He worked for Dad once, tracking down embezzlers in the company. If anyone can dig into that yacht explosion, it's him.
He answers on the third ring. "Miss Davenport. Been a while."
"Mrs. Orlov now," I correct automatically. "I need you to investigate my father's death."
"I heard about that. My condolences."
"Save them." My voice comes out harder than intended. "I think it was murder. I need you to re-examine the explosion,the boat service records, everything. Find out what the official investigation missed."
He's quiet for a beat. "That kind of digging makes enemies."
"I already have enemies." I think of the past few days. "What's a few more?"
"Alright. I'll need access to?—"
The front door opens. Sergei walks in carrying a small duffel bag, and behind him, a tiny figure with dark braided hair peers around his legs.
Mila.
"I have to go," I tell Wesley. "Email me what you need." I hang up before he can respond.
Sergei's gaze finds mine across the room, and heat flashes between us, immediate and visceral. He's wearing dark jeans and a black henley that fits him like a second skin, and my body remembers exactly how those muscles feel pressed against me.
"Izzy, this is Mila," he says, one hand resting on his daughter's shoulder. "Ptichka, this is Isabelle, my wife."
The word sounds strange in his mouth. Possessive and protective.
Mila studies me with those hazel-green eyes that see too much. She's small for eight, delicate-looking, but there's steel in the way she holds herself, like she's learned early that the world isn't safe.
"Hi," I manage, suddenly nervous. What do I say to a child? Especially one who's watching me like I'm a puzzle she's trying to solve?
"You're pretty," Mila says finally. "Papa said you were pretty."
My face burns. Sergei's expression doesn't change, but his jaw tightens slightly.
"Thank you." I slide off the couch, still wearing Sergei's shirt and nothing else except underwear. Mila's gaze drops to my bare legs, then back up. "I should probably?—"
"Go get dressed," Sergei finishes. His voice is rough, eyes darkening as they trace the curve of my thighs.
I flee upstairs, face burning. In the bedroom, I pull on jeans and one of the few blouses Marco brought. My reflection shows kiss-bruised lips and marks on my neck that I can't quite hide under the collar.
When I come back down, Mila's set up a chessboard on the coffee table. She's sitting cross-legged on the floor, pieces already arranged, and Sergei's settling across from her with the kind of patience I didn't know he possessed.
"White or black,ptichka?" he asks.
"Black. I like the challenge." She grins up at him, and it transforms her serious little face into brightness.
I hover in the doorway, watching them. Sergei moves his pawn and Mila counters immediately, no hesitation. They play in comfortable silence, broken only by her occasional questions about strategy or his quiet explanations about controlling the center.
He's gentle with her. Careful. Every sharp edge he shows the rest of the world is smoothed away until he's just a father teaching his daughter how to think three moves ahead. His voice dropsto that low rumble when he explains an opening, and she listens with absolute focus, trusting him completely.
I watch Sergei guide Mila's hand to a better position. Watch the way she laughs when she captures his knight. Watch them together like this.
I'm getting attached.
