But Sergei Morozov doesn't know that. To him, to the rest of the world, she's mine. My purchase, my property, my weakness.
And weaknesses get exploited.
I pull up the estate's security schematics on my computer and start reviewing the perimeter defenses. There's work to be done.
The north wall has a blind spot near the old gardener's shed—a gap in the camera coverage that I've been meaning to address for months. I flag it for immediate attention. The east gate's electronic lock is due for an upgrade; I add it to the list. The safe room in the basement needs to be stocked with supplies—food, water, medical equipment, weapons.
I work for two hours, methodically addressing every vulnerability I can identify. It's the kind of work that usually calms me—logical, systematic, focused on concrete problems with concrete solutions.
Today it doesn't help. My mind keeps drifting back to the study, to Bianca's face when I told her about Sergei's previous fiancées. The way the color drained from her cheeks. The way her legs gave out beneath her.
Disappeared, I said.No bodies were ever found.
I should have softened it. Should have found a gentler way to deliver the truth. But she asked for honesty, and I gave it to her. Maybe that was cruel. Maybe cruelty was the point—making her understand exactly what she escaped, exactly why she needs to stay here even though she hates it.
Even though she hates me.
My phone buzzes. A text from Alexei:Preliminary report on auction buyers. Files attached.
I open the attachment and start scrolling through the names. Sixty men, give or take. Politicians, executives, crime figures from half a dozen organizations. Some I recognize, some I don't. All of them saw me pay five million dollars for Bianca Benedetti. All of them are potential threats, potential sources of information for Sergei, potential leverage points.
I flag the most dangerous ones for deeper investigation. The tech executive with the Caribbean island—he has connections to the Morozovs through a money laundering operation. A state senator who's been in Anatoly Morozov's pocket for years. A shipping magnate who owes the Benedettis money and might be looking to curry favor with Sergei.
Every name is a thread. Pull the wrong one, and the whole tapestry unravels.
Another text from Alexei:Working on the women from the auction. Mirella was sold to a buyer in Nevada. Tracking location now.
Nevada. Far enough to be inconvenient, close enough to reach. I don't know what I'm going to do with the information when I have it—Bianca asked me to find out, not to intervene. But some part of me is already calculating logistics. How many men it would take. What kind of extraction would be required. Whether it's worth the risk.
It's not my concern. Alexei was right about that. The Kashkin family doesn't involve itself in trafficking—we've always held that line—but we also don't go around rescuing every victim of every crime. We're not heroes. We're not saviors.
But Bianca asked.
I close the file and rub my eyes. It's late afternoon now, the light through the window shifting from gold to amber. I've been at this desk for hours, and the work is far from finished.
I should eat. Should sleep. Should do any of the practical things that keep a body functional.
Instead, I find myself climbing the stairs.
Her door is closed. I stand outside it, listening, but there's no sound from within. No water running, no footsteps, no muffled crying. Either she's asleep or she's sitting in silence, alone with her thoughts.
I raise my hand to knock, then stop.
What would I say? The conversation in the study covered everything that needed to be said. She knows who I am, what I've done, why I left her. She knows about her father, about Sergei,about the danger she's in. She has all the information she needs to make her choices.
And she made it clear she doesn't want my comfort.
I lower my hand.
Through the door, I hear something—a small sound, barely audible. A hitched breath. A swallowed sob.
She's crying. Alone in that room, surrounded by luxury she didn't ask for, she's crying.
My hand flattens against the wood. I could go in. Could hold her. Could pretend, for one moment, that I'm the kind of man who knows how to offer comfort without strings attached.
But I'm not that man. I never have been.
I pull my hand back and walk away. My footsteps echo down the corridor, steady and measured, the footsteps of a man with somewhere to be.
