Around two in the afternoon, Danil appears in my doorway. "Your parents are here."
I'd forgotten. In the chaos and fear, I'd completely forgotten that Aleksandr arranged for them to visit today. Guilt crashes over me, mixing with the anxiety already churning in my gut.
"I can send them away," Danil offers. "Reschedule for when things are calmer."
"No." I stand, smoothing down my sweater with shaking hands. "They've waited three years to see me. I'm not making them wait longer."
I meet them in the formal living room, and the moment I see my mother's face, I start crying. She looks older, more worn, with gray streaking through her dark hair that wasn't there before. But her eyes are the same, warm and loving, and when she opens her arms, I fall into them like I'm five years old again.
"Lena." She holds me tight, her body shaking with sobs. "My baby. My sweet girl."
My father stands behind her, and when Mom finally releases me, he pulls me into a hug that smells like Old Spice and home. He's thinner than I remember, his face more lined, but his grip is still strong.
"We thought we'd lost you," he says, his voice rough. "We didn't know if you were alive or… dead."
"I'm sorry." The words feel inadequate. "I'm so sorry I couldn't contact you. I was afraid it would put you in danger."
Mom pats me on the shoulder. "That is what we planned, baby girl," she says with a watery smile. "We knew you wouldn't be able to contact us or let us know where you were staying until it was safe. That is not your fault." She pauses to look at my dad. "We are just so glad you are safe and alive!"
We sit together on the couch, and I notice the way their eyes move around the room. Taking in the expensive furniture and artwork, the obvious wealth. They're confused and probably terrified, though they're trying to hide it.
"Where are we?" Mom asks carefully. "Whose house is this?"
I take a deep breath. "It belongs to someone who's been protecting me. Someone important."
"Important how?" Dad's voice sharpens with suspicion.
"He's…" I pause, trying to find words that won't send them running. "He's powerful. Connected. And he's kept me safe when no one else could."
Mom's hand finds mine, squeezing gently. "Lena, what aren't you telling us?"
Before I can answer, before I can figure out how to explain that I'm in love with a Mob boss who once ordered my death, the door opens.
Aleksandr walks in, and my heart stops.
He's alive. He's here. But his clothes are torn and stained with blood, his face is pale beneath the stubble, and there's a makeshift bandage wrapped around his left forearm.
My parents go rigid beside me. Mom's hand tightens on mine until it hurts, and Dad makes a sound low in his throat that might be fear or fury or both.
Because they recognize him.
Even after three years, even with the blood and exhaustion, they know exactly who just walked into the room.
Aleksandr Romanov. The Pakhan who ordered their daughter's execution.
Their faces drain of color as they stare at him, then at me, their expressions shifting from confusion to horror.
50
ALEKSANDR
The blood has dried into a second skin by the time I push through the estate doors. Most of it isn't mine. Most of it belonged to Katya's men, the ones stupid enough to think an ambush on the highway would be enough to take me down.
They were wrong.
My muscles scream with exhaustion, but adrenaline keeps me upright, keeps my mind sharp and cataloging threats. Combat mode doesn't have an off switch, and right now, every shadow looks like an enemy.
I round the corner into the sitting room and stop.
