“Okay,” he says softly.
And somehow, impossibly, I believe him when he adds: “You’re safe now.”
Leon
Florrie sits in the passenger seat of my SUV, her hands folded in her lap, staring out the window at the city sliding past. She hasn't spoken since we left the club twenty minutes ago. Hasn't asked where we're going. Hasn't tried to argue or negotiate or change my mind.
She's in shock. I recognize it. The stillness, the glassy quality to her eyes. Her body is here, but her mind is still processing everything that happened in that warehouse.
I should probably say something. Reassure her. Explain what happens next. Instead, I focus on driving, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift. The city gives way to suburbs, then to the winding roads that lead out to the Dubovich estate. Forty acres of carefully manicured property behind high walls and security gates. The family compound where five generations have built an empire.
The gates open as we approach, the security system recognizing my car. I pull through and follow the main drive past the main house. A sprawling old-world construction of stone and glass where Vitali lives with Charlotte and Yury with Sophia. Past the old barn the Avros has been working on for over a year, and the smaller house that Zakhar has asked our uncle for.
My house sits at the far edge of the property. Smaller than Zakhar’s, more private. Two stories of dark stone and widewindows, surrounded by old-growth trees that keep it hidden from the main compound. I had it built three years ago when living in the main house with my uncle and cousins became insufferable.
I needed space. Distance. A place that was mine.
Only now I'm bringing someone into it.
I park in the circular drive and cut the engine. The silence that follows is heavy.
Florrie finally turns to look at me, and her eyes are clearer now. Less shocked, more wary.
"Where are we?" she asks.
"Home." I open my door and step out before she can respond. By the time I round the car, she's already climbing out on her own, those ridiculous heels clicking against the stone paving.
She looks around, taking in the house, the grounds, the sheer isolation of it all.
"You live here," she says. Not a question.
"We live here now," I correct.
Her jaw tightens, but she doesn't argue.
I lead her up the steps and unlock the front door. The house is dark, quiet. I flip on lights as we move through the entryway into the main living space. Open floor plan, high ceilings, minimalist furniture in blacks and grays. Everything clean, ordered, functional.
Florrie stops in the middle of the room; arms wrapped around herself again. That damn jacket is still on, and I can see her shivering slightly.
"Are you cold?" I ask.
She shakes her head. But it's a lie. I can see it in the way she's holding herself.
I move to the fireplace and flip the switch. Flames spring to life, casting warm light across the space.
"Sit," I tell her, gesturing to the couch.
She doesn't move.
"Florrie."
"I don't know what I'm doing here," she says quietly. Her eyes finally meet mine, and there's something raw in them. "I don't know what happens now. I don't know what you want from me."
What do I want from her?
The question is more complicated than she knows.
I cross the space between us carefully. She doesn't retreat, but her body tenses as I approach.
