This building showcases the epitome of old money, not the soulless face of the nouveau riche and their fancy high-tech gear.
Constructed to last the test of time, the compound features rough-hewn gray stone—stained and cleaned too many times to count—worn smooth by age, hands, and violence. Broken edges hide bullet holes and chips. Decorative balusters on the white porches provide great cover and are easy to resurface in minutes to hide evidence.
Floodlights wash the exterior in harsh white, eliminating any shadows where threats might lurk.
Meticulously maintained acres surround the house. Not for beauty, but for sight lines.
This is no place for anyone to approach unseen. Guards patrol the perimeter in precise patterns, their earpieces glinting in the artificial light. Each one carries a sidearm visible enough to act as a warning and moves with the steady focus of a man who understands exactly what he’s protecting and the cost of failure.
Tonight, and for the last few weeks, the family’s collective paranoia has grown by leaps and bounds. All because of this wretched scavenger hunt some psycho with too much time and resources on their hands gave us.
And because of the Falcones and their mercenaries trying to get in on the action.
This isn’t just Roman’s home. It’s his men’s home too.
They all have a place here if they don’t want to live out in town. Even for those who do, they can still spend the day, the night, or the week at the compound, among family.
These guards are protecting their Pakhan and their own safe haven.
And mine.
But tonight, the homecoming feels hollow.
Jordan’s absence is a physical ache in my chest.
I shouldn’t feel like this. I don’t do attachment. I don’t do regret either.
And yet, as I roll up the long, dark gravel driveway, with the crunch of stone heralding my approach, I can’t deny my regret as I recall her small, drenched silhouette outside that hotel. Shivering in the cold.
Kholodno.
I’d pulled away from the curb. Twenty feet down the road, I slowed, watching in the rearview mirror. She stood under theglare of the hotel canopy, lost, a drowned creature in her ruined dress.
I could have reversed. Could have gone back.
Instead, I stayed put as she wrapped her arms around herself, exposing her vulnerability. I felt like someone pried open my chest and ripped out my heart. Her face was a blank canvas. Due to shock, maybe. Or hurt.
I did that.
Fighting the guilt flooding me, I remind myself I offered her a clean exit. I solved the problem and dodged a bullet.
Yet the sharp pain beneath my sternum refuses to budge.
I shake off the memory of her quivering outside that hotel and reach for the package on the passenger seat. Whatever’s inside, the contents set Gio Falcone’s men on us and got people killed tonight. And it might be the only thing that makes sense of the confusion that’s been building since the mess on the island all those years ago.
The cool night air envelops me once I exit the car. My footsteps crunch on the gravel as I approach the house, each step an affirmation.
This is my world. I belong here. Not in hotels with frightened wellness gurus who read auras and cry over fathers long dead. Not in ballrooms with blood on my knuckles.
Better to be alone than with me.
I will let her keep the freedom she worked so hard for.
Repeating the mantra, I climb the steps.Conviction, not regret.Protection, not abandonment. I didn’t leave her. I saved her from me.
A guard nods when I pass, his gaze assessing me for threats.
The front entry, designed to keep the world and bullets at bay, boasts heavy wood and reinforced steel. I shove the door open and march into the marble foyer with its soaring ceilings and frosty grandeur.
