The sheet eventually turns to snow.
It’s around forty minutes later—maybe more, maybe less, because time feels so foreign now—when the estate finally appears in the distance.
A fortress of stone and steel rises from behind a dense line of firs, its silhouette enormous against the storm-dark sky. The main structure is cold and imposing, flanked by watchtowers and long windows that reflect nothing, reminding me of the eyes of a haunted painting that refuse to reveal what they’ve seen.
It’s not a home. It’s not even a mansion.
It’s a stronghold.
An iron gate stretches across the entrance road, black and monstrous, with intricate knotwork woven into the metal that looks more decorative than it really is. I vaguely recognize it from CCTV footage years ago before Papa banned me from sneaking down to the control room in the basement to watch the feeds when I couldn't sleep.
This place belongs to someone powerful. Someone feared. Someone no politician, no matter how connected, would dare cross.
My pulse stutters.
Despite never being here before this, I know exactly where we are.
The car slows as we pull up to the gate. Cameras swivel to zero in on our vehicle. Armed guards step out of small, heated booths to verify our arrival. They don’t wear government uniforms, nor do they greet us politely. They simply wave us through after Yuri verifies who we are, the iron gate ahead of us slowly opening.
The estate is massive, larger than I realized at first glance. Buildings sprawl outward—garages, barracks, storage structures, all connected by stone walkways that have been plowed expertly and salted fresh from the falling snow. Tallevergreens sway in the wind, their branches heavy with ice, bending under the weight of winter.
The main house towers above everything else with its dark stone walls, large windows, and balconies that look like perches for predators.
Yuri pulls the car into a wide circular drive, the tires crunching over gravel. The engine rumbles to a stop. He steps out first, his hand hovering near the weapon strapped at his hip while his eyes scan the environment with trained focus.
Papa emerges from the car next.
The moment his shoes hit the ground, two men in black coats step down from the doors and approach him. They move with predator-like precision, long strides with hands that rest casually near the concealed weapons under their jackets.
“Viktor Morozov. You’re expected,” one of them says.
My father nods once and gestures for me to follow.
Yuri opens my door. “Come,Devushka.”
His tone is gentler than usual, but gentleness from him is just another alarm bell ringing inside my head, drowning everything else out. I slide out, boots touching the gravel while my hand grips my bag straps. The cold hits my face immediately, sharp enough to sting my nose and cheeks.
I follow after my father because what else can I do?
The men flank us as we approach the massive front doors. They’re carved with intricate designs, wolves woven through thorned branches, their jaws open as they maw at the sky as if in warning. The air inside smells like cedar and smoke,expensive cologne, and something faintly familiar, like the ghost of something I once knew.
We step into the foyer.
That’s when I see him.
At first, he’s just a silhouette by the grand staircase—tall, broad-shouldered, hands clasped behind his back. A man carved from horrors more than flesh. But when he steps into the light, the air in the room shifts immediately.
I recognize him instantly.
The name whispered in back rooms. The Devil Papa has been bargaining with for years.
Sasha Sokolov, in the flesh.
A man I haven’t seen in years.
His presence hits like a physical blow—cold, commanding, devastating in its intensity. He looks younger than I expected but no less dangerous. His features are sharp and symmetrical, too striking to be entirely human. His eyes are dark and unreadable, as if he could see straight through you with one glance.
He’s tall, easily over six-two, with the kind of build that speaks of quiet, functional strength rather than vanity. One that’s earned through violence and command rather than regular visits at the gym. His shoulders alone could easily fill a doorway. His posture is straight and controlled, looking as if he’s perpetually bracing for the next attack… or preparing to deliver one.
