“Sit down and buckle up,” he orders. “Unless you want to explain that outfit to Swiss Customs.”
“What?” I snap, crossing my arms over my chest. “Never seen a woman freeze to death in Chanel before?”
He shrugs off his suit jacket in one fluid motion and drapes it over my shoulders before I can protest. The warmth of him still lingers in the fabric, along with something that makes my head spin—cedar and leather and pure male. Not that I’m going to tell him that.
His hands settle on my shoulders, steering me into the seat beside him. When he reaches across to grab my seatbelt, his cologne hits me again, and—fuck—my brain short-circuits for a second.
Maksim snorts from across the cabin, though he wisely keeps his head down, pretending to be fascinated by Elijah’s game. My son scrambles into his own seat, Nintendo Switch still glued to his hands like it’s a vital organ.
“At least someone in your family knows how to follow instructions,” Leonid mutters, clicking my belt into place.
“Yeah, well, he didn’t get his attitude from me,” I shoot back.
Leonid’s mouth twitches. “Obviously.”
I roll my eyes and burrow deeper into his jacket, definitely not inhaling the scent of him like some lovesick teenager. He settlesnext to me, all coiled power and expensive cologne, his fingers drumming a restless beat on the armrest.
When he finally turns to look at me, his eyes are dark with something that isn’t just annoyance.
“Tell me something, Clara.” His voice drops low enough that only I can hear. “I expected Stephan Lombardi to come charging in by now.”
My pulse jumps. Stephan. My father’s right-hand man. My mentor. The one person who should’ve torn everything apart looking for me by now.
“What’s it to you?” I keep my voice steady, but Leonid’s already caught the flash of uncertainty in my eyes.
His mouth curves into something that might be a smile on anyone else. On him, it’s a weapon.
“Strange, isn’t it? Your father’s most trusted man…” He lets the words hang there, heavy with implication. “And yet here we are, flying over the Alps and not a single rescue attempt.”
His question slams into me like a goddamn freight train.
Where the fuck is Stephan?
That fucking question that’s been eating away at me like a goddamn parasite is now thrust in my face by Leonid.
47
Leonid
The buzz of my phone pulls my attention from the frosted windowpane. The Matterhorn stares back at me, sharp and defiant against the brilliant sky. I glance at the screen—Maksim. A message flashes.
Boss. Running errands. Don’t miss me too much. Be back before meeting.
I exhale through my nose.Running errands.
That could mean anything from bribing a local official to flirting with some ski bunny. The man has all the discipline of a stray dog. My thumbs move over the screen with a bite of frustration.
Don’t be late, suka.
I hit “send” and shake my head, muttering“mudak”as I pocket the phone. Maksim’s irresponsibility is a small stone inthe mountain of betrayal and chaos crushing down on me lately. Fiona, Ludis, Dmitry’s cryptic message—everything gnaws at my patience like a dull blade.
A sound pulls me from my thoughts, light and high-pitched. Laughter. I glance toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, my gaze drawn by the unexpected burst of joy. Below, on the terrace, Elijah is stomping in the snow, scattering powdery flurries into the cold, bright air.
“Mommy! Look, I’m making a snow volcano!”
Clara stands beside him, her hands tucked into a tailored white coat, the fur-lined hood framing her face. Her dark hair spills over her shoulders, catching the light as she leans down to fix Elijah’s scarf. She’s laughing too, her shoulders shaking slightly, the kind of unguarded moment that seems rare for her.
She’s dressed better than I expected—thankfully. The coat is fitted perfectly, the slim cut showing her figure without trying too hard. Leather gloves cover her hands, sleek and practical, while knee-high boots crunch softly in the snow. I’d made sure my retail manager had their sizes before we left New Orleans. I’m not dragging them into the Alps just to watch them freeze to death.
