“Avgust.”
The name didn’t suit him and still suited him all at once. It sounded too human for someone carved out of shadow.
“Avgust what?”
He didn’t answer.
But I already knew. Avgust Chernykh. But if that name held any significance in Miami, I did not know. Although thereactions and respect he elicited from people with just a glance were enough to tell me that there was something about him that was bigger than just money.
I stared out the window, trying to memorize turns, landmarks, anything. But the city melted into darkness too fast. The fatigue crept back in, thick and heavy. I pressed my fingers to my temples, willing my head to stop spinning. None of this felt real. The lights, the suits, the bidding, his voice cutting through the noise. None of it. It all blurred into something my brain refused to file under reality.
I was dreaming. I had to be.
I closed my eyes for what I thought was just a second.
When I opened them, the car was pulling up to iron gates taller than any building I’d lived in before. They opened without a word. Cameras turned toward us. The drive was lined with trees, the house at the end massive and cold, light glowing behind tinted windows.
The car stopped in the driveway, right in front of the large wooden doors sprawling on my left.
Avgust got out, came around, and opened my door. The man clearly had manners.
“Get out.” Or maybe not.
I stepped onto the gravel. The crunch under my heels echoed too loudly.
The mansion loomed above us, all sharp edges and shadows. It had no warmth or any sign of life. It was beautiful but simply made of glass and stone. He walked ahead, and I followed because there was clearly nowhere else to go. Inside, everything gleamed. From the black marble floors to the silver fixtures, a faint smell of gun oil and rain clung to everything.I had seen luxury before, but not like this. This was something else.
He spoke once, over his shoulder. “You’ll stay here for now.”
“For now?”
Before he could answer, his phone buzzed. He answered, murmured something in Russian which was too low for me to catch. He kept the phone back in his pocket and turned towards me. “It’s ready.”
“What is?”
He didn’t reply.
He turned around and looked at me for the first time properly, eyes unreadable. For some reason I could not understand, all I could think was how handsome he looked in the warm lights of the mansion spreading around us. He was undeniably good-looking.
“You’ll need to sign something.”
I immediately returned to reality, shaking my head at him.
“What kind of something? A slavery agreement?”
His lip twitched, but he didn’t smile. Instead, he turned, heading deeper into the house without a backward glance as if he simply expected me to follow. “You’ll see,”
He led me down a corridor that seemed to stretch forever. Every sound echoed. Our footsteps, the hum of distant air conditioning, and the faint patter of the rain outside. The silence pressed on my ears, making me realize how empty the entire place was. It almost felt as if no one else lived there. I could not see a single servant or anyone else, either.
Finally, he stepped in front of a door and pushed it open.
It opened into a huge, minimally decorated yet very masculine study. It was all dark wood, chrome, and books lined in perfect order. A single lamp lit the desk, its glow spilling across stacks of paper and the faint glint of metal from a gun resting beside them.
“Sit,” he said, motioning to the leather chair across from the desk.
I stayed standing. “What is this?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned against the desk, pulled out his phone again, and sent a short text. Seconds later, footsteps approached from the hall. A man knocked on the door and entered the room. He was clearly in his mid-fifties, had thin hair, and his forehead was beaded with sweat despite the cool air. A briefcase dangled from his hand. His eyes darted to Avgust, then to me, then immediately back down to the floor.
