A hand, heavy and warm, settles on my shoulder. I turn, startled, and look up into the face of a man I’ve never seen before. He’s tall. Broad. Built like he could tear a car door off its hinges without breaking a sweat. The open collar of his shirt reveals a strong neck and more than a hint of muscle. His dark hair is mussed just enough to suggest menace, and his eyes—green, piercing—give off the kind of intensity that makes people step aside without thinking.
“I need you to come with me,” he says. His voice is deep and smooth, urgent.
I blink. “Who are you?”
“I’m with the Ivanovs,” he says simply. “Yuri asked me to look after you.”
I hesitate, heart beating a little faster. Something in his expression makes it hard to say no. It’s not just authority. It’s loyalty.
And God help me, I trust it.
“Okay,” I say.
He nods once, then guides me with a hand at the small of my back, firm but not pushy. We weave through the tension-filled office, past spilled coffee cups and half-packed briefcases. Everyone watches us, but no one says a word.
In the garage downstairs, a black G Wagon awaits. The man opens the passenger door for me, his big frame blocking half the light. For someone who looks like he eats rebar for breakfast, his hand on my back is surprisingly gentle.
“Thanks,” I murmur.
He waits until I’m buckled in before rounding the hood and sliding into the driver’s seat. The engine growls to life, and we pull out into the soft gray morning.
“I’m Grigori,” he says after a minute. “I’m Elena’s husband.”
“I haven’t met Elena yet.”
“You will,” he says with a faint smile. “Be ready. She’s a firecracker.” He sounds proud. Fiercely so. The kind of pride that blooms from admiration.
We ride in silence for a while, the city unspooling outside the windows in slow motion. I rest a hand over my pocket. The USB drives press lightly against the fabric.
“Will the guys be okay?” I ask, glancing at him.
Grigori’s hands stay loose on the wheel, but his jaw tightens. “They’ll be fine. The family lawyers are already on it. They’ve danced this dance before.”
“Where are we going?”
“The family mansion. Just outside the city.”
My stomach twists inside me. I’ve stepped into something big. And possibly dangerous. And I don’t know if I’m ready.
Twenty minutes later we’re there.
The gates alone are intimidating—tall, wrought iron, with a subtle Ivanov crest etched in the center like something out of a crime family fairy tale. Beyond them stretches a winding, tree-lined driveway that leads to what can only be described as a palace in disguise.
The mansion is sprawling and stately, with Tudor-style stonework and ivy-draped walls. Sloping gables, leaded windows, and three towering floors that seem to stretch toward the sky. It’s massive—easily tens of thousands of square feet—yet nothing about it feels ostentatious. It’s old money, quiet and powerful.
I lean closer to the window, wide-eyed. “Wow.”
Grigori notices. “Built in the thirties. Original oak floors. Gardens out back. Pool too, though it’s mostly the kids who use it these days.” He glances at me. “We’ve got a full-time chef, around-the-clock security team, and—don’t panic—yes, those are guards at every corner of the grounds.”
I spot them after he mentions it. They’re posted along the perimeter, standing beside trees, two at the front door, one at each end of the house.
“So this is normal?” I murmur.
Grigori laughs quietly. “Normal enough. For us anyway.”
The car glides to a stop at the arched entryway. Before I can fully process the architecture, the front doors open and a woman steps out. She’s stunning—dark hair, porcelain skin, and with the kind of face you expect to see on the cover of a magazine. She’s dressed in a sleek, black, knit dress and boots.
“Grigori,” she says, her voice tender as she reaches for him.
