Diana sits in the backseat beside me, pressed against the opposite door as far as the space allows, her arms wrapped tight around herself. She hasn’t spoken since we left the scene, but her breathing is audible.
I don’t attempt conversation. Explanations can wait until we’re somewhere secure, somewhere the variables are contained and I can assess exactly how much damage Sartore’s failed abduction caused.
Oleg drives with his usual precision, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror every few seconds to check our tail.
The second SUV follows close behind, carrying the two men we pulled from the van. They’ll be interrogated separately, though I already know what they’ll say. Lorenzo authorized the grab. Standard containment protocol for a liability that threatened both organizations.
What I don’t know is whether Lorenzo coordinated with Pavel, or if this was a unilateral move designed to force my hand.
The estate gates come into view—twelve feet of reinforced steel set into stone pillars, biometric scanner glowing faintly in the darkness. Oleg presses his thumb to the reader and the gates swing open smoothly, closing behind us with a solid mechanicalthunk.
Diana stiffens beside me, her gaze tracking the perimeter fence that stretches in both directions, topped with security cameras angled to cover every approach. The driveway curvesthrough manicured grounds, motion-sensor lights activating as we pass, illuminating the main house.
It’s not ostentatious—I don’t believe in displays that draw attention—but it’s substantial. Three stories of pale stone and dark windows, clean architectural lines that suggest permanence rather than luxury.
Armed guards rotate positions near the entrance, visible enough to be a deterrent but professional enough not to look like a militia.
The SUV stops beneath the covered portico. Oleg exits first, circling to open Diana’s door before I can. She doesn’t move immediately, staring at the house with an expression I can’t fully read. Fear, definitely. Beneath it, something sharper—calculation, maybe, or the beginnings of fury.
“Out,” I say, keeping my tone neutral.
She slides from the vehicle slowly, her legs unsteady enough that she braces one hand against the doorframe. I move around to her side, close enough to catch her if she falls, but she pulls herself upright through sheer will and steps away from my proximity.
The main door opens as we approach. Another guard—Taras, who’s been with the family for fifteen years—nods once and steps aside.
I guide Diana through the entrance with a hand at her lower back, feeling the tension radiating through her body despite the layers of clothing between my palm and her skin.
The entryway is warm after the cold night air, lit by recessed lighting that casts everything in muted gold. Marble floors, minimal furniture, a staircase curving up to the second level. The central control room sits behind a locked door to theleft, camera feeds routing every angle of the property through encrypted servers.
Diana stops in the middle of the space and turns to face me, her dark eyes blazing with an anger that’s finally overtaken the fear.
“What the hell is this?” Her voice shakes slightly, but the words come out sharp and clear. “You kidnapped me.”
Technically accurate. I removed her from one vehicle and placed her in another without consent, then transported her to a private location against her will. The legal definition is unambiguous.
“I extracted you from a situation that would have ended badly,” I say instead.
“By forcing me into your car and bringing me to—” She gestures around the entryway, her movements jerky with adrenaline. “—wherever this is. Shit, Felix.”
The use of my first name lands with unexpected intimacy. She’s been researching me thoroughly enough to know more than just my firm’s name. It means she understands who she’s dealing with, even if she doesn’t fully grasp the implications.
“You can call it whatever makes you feel better,” I tell her. “You’re alive, which is more than those men intended.”
Her jaw tightens. “The men in the van. Who sent them?”
“Lorenzo Sartore. Head of the Sartore Syndicate.” I watch her process the name, seeing the moment recognition flickers across her expression. She’s seen it in Ethan’s files—the parallel organization running adjacent operations, competing for the same political territory. “He considers you a liability. Your brother’s investigation threatened his operations before it was contained. Now you’re picking up where Ethan left off.”
“So you swooped in to rescue me?” The skepticism in her tone is cutting. “How convenient that you showed up exactly when I needed saving. Almost like you orchestrated the whole thing.”
The accusation doesn’t surprise me. It’s the logical conclusion from her perspective—stage the threat, play the hero, gain control through manufactured crisis. I could correct her, explain that I’ve been monitoring her movements to prevent exactly this scenario, that Sartore moved without coordination and I had to intercept before they relocated her somewhere I couldn’t reach.
Ambiguity serves me better. Let her believe I’m capable of that level of manipulation. It keeps her off-balance, aware that she can’t predict my moves or trust my motivations.
“Believe what you want,” I say. “The outcome is the same. You’re here instead of wherever Sartore planned to take you.”
She takes a step back, scanning the room with renewed urgency. Her gaze lands on the door we entered through, then shifts to the windows; reinforced glass, I know, though she wouldn’t notice the difference visually as she calculates escape routes, assesses options.
“I want to leave.”
