"You won't." His voice is cold steel. "Because the alternative is everyone knowing you're here against your will. That makes you a liability I'd have to eliminate."
The threat settles over me like ice water. A Mob boss doesn't keep prisoners and let them advertise that fact to his organization. But would he really do that? Could the man I've spent the past weeks with actually kill me?
The fact that I'm unsure scares me even more.
"Fine," I say through gritted teeth.
"Good." Aleksandr's eyes meet mine in the mirror again. "The moment we walk through those gates, you're mine. Act like it."
The rest of the drive passes in tense silence.
When we finally pull through the gates of his estate, I forget to breathe.
The house rises before us like something from a fever dream. Stone and glass, impossibly grand, sprawls across manicured grounds that stretch for what looks like miles. This is old money. Dangerous money. The kind of wealth that buys silence and loyalty in equal measure.
The car pulls to a stop at the entrance, and Aleksandr gets out first, then opens my door. His hand extends to help me up, and I take it, my legs unsteady as I step onto the marble drive.
"Welcome home," Aleksandr says, his hand finding the small of my back as we step inside.
The touch is possessive. Deliberate.Familiar. And it sends a jolt of sadness and remembrance through me.
The moment we cross the threshold, my eyes catch on the marble floors that stretch out in every direction, so polished, I can see my reflection in them. Crystal chandeliers hang from ceilings that seem impossibly high, casting fractured light across walls lined with artwork that probably costs more than my family's entire net worth. The foyer alone is bigger than my old apartment.
Men appear almost immediately, their faces registering shock when they see Aleksandr. He's alive. He's here. And he's not alone.
"Boss?" one of them says, his eyes round and wide, blinking as if doubting what he sees.
"Pakhan!" Another man pushes forward, his voice cracking with emotion. "You're alive. We thought… Christ, we thought you were dead."
More men flood into the foyer, their faces a mixture of relief and disbelief. They dart curious looks at me, but their main focus is on Aleksandr. These aren't soft men. They're soldiers, enforcers, men who've seen violence and dealt it without flinching. But right now, they look like they've witnessed a resurrection.
"Boss, where the hell have you been?" A scarred man with a shaved head steps closer, his eyes scanning Aleksandr as if checking for injuries. "A month. No word. Nothing."
Aleksandr's hand tightens slightly on my back, a subtle reminder to play my part. His voice, when he speaks, carries the weight of absolute authority. "I've been exactly where I needed to be. And that's all you need to know."
The men fall silent, but their eyes shift to me. I can feel them assessing, calculating, trying to figure out who I am and why their Pakhan disappeared with me.
"Gentlemen," Aleksandr says, his tone warming just enough to sound charming without losing its edge. "This is Lena. Myfiancée."
The word lands like a stone in still water. Girlfriend. Not captive. Not a prisoner. Girlfriend. My breath catches. No, wait. He didn't say girlfriend, he saidfiancée! My eyes jerk to his face, but he just smiles down at me, looking for all the world that he's staring at the woman he loves. But there's a faint gleam in his gaze, a warning to go along with his insane plan.
I force myself to smile, to lean slightly into Aleksandr's touch as if it's natural. As if I want to be here. His fingers spread wider against my back, and I feel the heat of his palm through the fabric of my shirt.
The men nod, accepting this explanation because they have no choice. Aleksandr is their Pakhan. His word is law.
As we move toward the grand staircase, I catch snippets of their whispered conversations. "She must be something special."
If only they knew.
We climb the stairs, and Aleksandr's hand never leaves my back. His touch is firm, guiding, possessive in a way that makes my skin prickle with awareness. I hate that my body responds to him.
The hallway stretches before us, lined with closed doors and more expensive artwork. When we're far enough from the stairs that the voices below fade to murmurs, I hiss under my breath, "Fiancée?"
"Keep walking," he says quietly, his hand pressing more firmly against my back.
"You said girlfriend in the car. Now suddenly I'm your fiancée?"
"We'll discuss it in private."
