“Oh, let’s go now,” I replied, rising to my feet.
“I’d rather not risk entering the wrong room in another Lobanov safe house,” I let out as we walked past more doors along the immaculate hallway.
“This is Sir Damian’s house. It’s not a safe house,” he answered with a tone that carried a sense of pride and amusement.
“Oh, his own house? When we passed the estate gates yesterday, I just assumed this was another joint Lobanov property.”
“I guess it’s still Lobanov property, technically speaking. But it’s Sir Damian’s private residence.”
“Nice.”
That was an understatement of my amazement over the new information. The house didn’t look or feel cold; it felt lived-in. Instead of relics of individual dominance, the whole space carried signs of family power. It was a direct reflection of what I would have expected of Damian’s house. The simple contrast unsettled me more than the overt menace would.
“We’re here,” the guard informed, stopping in front of double doors.
“Thank you,” I told him, managing a smile. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Danil, ma.”
“Well, I’m Elena.”
A shy smile played around his lips. “We dare not call you by your name, ma.”
“Right,” I muttered, nodding.
The workers probably got the marriage memo before I did.
“Thanks,” I said again, realizing he was waiting for me to dismiss him.
He nodded and went in the opposite direction as I opened the door and entered the study. I remember catching glimpses of papers concerning the lawsuit on one of the tables, as Damian and I spoke the day before.
But the tables were clean this morning.
I stood and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the manicured grounds. Somewhere out there, the traitor I was exposing was likely circling the perimeter, looking for the crack in the Lobanov armor that didn’t exist.
I needed structure. I needed the one thing that had always kept me sane: the law.
I looked around the shelves that dwarfed me, checking folded newspapers and open books to see if I could see the papers I was looking for. Reviewing the lawsuit was my way of grounding myself. It was my tether to the person I had been before Damian Lobanov crashed into my life.
Eventually, I found them in a file wrapped with newspapers. I sat in one of the chairs facing a table and started to spread the papers out.
The lawsuit was a masterpiece of strategic civil action. On the surface, it targeted a series of shell corporations—real-estate fronts that seemed like standard corporate crime. But beneath the legal jargon was a map of the Bratva’s circulatory system. I had identified the money laundering routes that overlapped with federal jurisdictions, ensuring that once the first subpoena was served, the FBI would have no choice but to follow the trail.
I hadn’t filed it to win a settlement. I was weaponizing legitimacy against a world that relied on secrecy.
I leaned back, tapping a silver pen against my chin. I had been groomed for this. Raised under Sergei’s guardianship, I had learned early that intelligence was the only protection that lasted. I had watched the men in my family use violence like a blunt instrument, and I had realized that while a bullet could kill a person, a well-placed legal loophole could kill an empire. Law was my rebellion—my way of saying I would not be the silent, obedient daughter the Bratva demanded.
Hours later, I was knee-deep in reflection and lawsuit details when I heard the door open. I didn’t jump. Neither did I turn. I had come to recognize the almost-silent tap of Damian’s footsteps. The fact that a few seconds passed before he approached further proved that he was the one.
“I should have known you’d be here,” he remarked.
“Morning to you, too,” I answered as he came to me on the other side of the table.
I looked up to see that he wasn’t in a suit today, just a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up close to his elbows. His expression was…ordinary.
“It’s afternoon already,” he corrected, pulling a chair close and sitting opposite me.
“Right,” I agreed, suddenly running out of things to say.
