Guards stand on the steps, and another lurks near the corner of the building, trying too hard to appear casual. A gardener near the hedge line holds his shears awkwardly—hands too stiff, his attention too focused on the convoy.
Ivan steps out.
Something in him tightens as soon as his shoes hit the gravel. The relaxed version of him from the penthouse—the man who sipped espresso in his robe—disappears. His shoulders straighten, and his expression becomes impassive. The heir has returned.
He strides toward the entrance without waiting.
I follow closely enough to intercept any threats but far enough to respect the hierarchy.
The guards on the steps don't greet him or shift aside; they merely watch him pass, their eyes steady.
One of them glances at me.
I recognize that look. Estate guards see themselves as elite, and to them, I am just street trash—a brawler Ivan picked up from the gutter. Their expressions convey a mix of dislike and caution, as if they'd prefer I didn't exist but know I can be dangerous.
Ivan's Rabid Dog.
That's what they call me here. I've heard it whispered in the corridors. It's not a title; it's a justification, explaining why Ivan keeps me close.
The guard's mouth twitches as I pass, but I offer him nothing in return.
We enter.
Inside, the Estate feels colder than the penthouse—not in temperature, but in scale. The ceilings soar to thirty feet, designed to make us feel small and insignificant. Our footsteps echo on the checkerboard marble as we cross the entrance hall.
Portraits line the walls—Baranov men from generation to generation, painted in oils. They stare down at us—Pakhan after Pakhan, judging the living.
Ivan's mother isn't among them.
I noticed her absence the first time I visited. The wife of the current Pakhan and mother of the heir—missing. No portrait, no photograph. It's as if the house refuses to acknowledge her existence.
I don't ask.
We reach the upper landing, where the hallway narrows and heavy oak doors line the walls, soundproofed. This is where the business takes place.
More guards stand near the entrance to Sergei's private study, straightening as we approach. Hands drift to weapons—not threatening, just prepared.
Then, a door opens to our left.
Boris Baranov steps into the hall.
Dressed in a gray suit tailored to conceal the softness of his midsection, his silvered hair is meticulously arranged at thetemples. His expression carries concern the way a politician cradles a baby—practiced, light, and utterly disingenuous.
"Ivan." Boris spreads his arms but doesn't close the distance. "We were worried. The reports from the city were... troubling."
"I'm sure they were," Ivan replies.
Boris's gaze shifts to me, and the concern evaporates, replaced by a cold, aristocratic appraisal. He regards me as if I were mud tracked onto a Persian rug.
"You brought your shadow," Boris states, the insult evident in his tone. "Given the sensitivity of the situation, I assumed you'd prefer to speak to your father privately."
"My security is not your concern."
Boris's smile tightens at the corners. "Family matters should remain within the family."
He turns fully toward me, dropping the facade of warmth.
"Wait here, dog. This conversation is above your station."
