The mansion didn't just feel like a cage; it felt like a museum where I was the only living exhibit.
Dimitri had been gone for six hours. The silence in the house was absolute, broken only by the rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock in the foyer that sounded like a countdown. I had spent the first three hours pacing my—our—bedroom, the scent of sandalwood still clinging to the silk sheets like a ghost. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt the phantom pressure of his hands on my skin and heard that low, dark purr: "Maya milaya."
I couldn't stay in that room. It felt too much like surrendering.
I stepped out into the hallway, my bare feet sinking into the plush Persian rugs. I half-expected a guard to materialize from the shadows, but the upper floor was deserted. Dimitri's house was a fortress of glass, steel, and secrets. As I walked, I realized how little I knew about the man who now owned my life. To the world, he was the Ice Pakhan. To me, he was the man who had carried me to bed after breaking my world apart.
I found myself standing in front of the heavy mahogany doors at the end of the north wing. Dimitri's study.
The "Forbidden Zone."
My heart hammered against my ribs—a frantic, trapped bird. He had told me the rules. Rule number three: Never, ever question his business. But how could I not? My father was dead, my life was a contract, and the man holding the pen was a mystery wrapped in a tailored suit.
I reached for the handle. It was cold. I expected it to be locked, but with a faint, mocking click, the door swung open.
The room smelled of expensive tobacco, aged whiskey, and him. It was a masculine sanctuary—floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a massive desk carved from dark wood, and a leather chair that looked like a throne. Sunlight slanted through the heavy velvet curtains, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.
I moved toward the desk, my pulse a deafening roar in my ears. I shouldn't be here. If he caught me, the "tender" version of Dimitri from last night would vanish, replaced by the man who handled debt with lead and fire.
But I needed to know.
The desk was meticulously organized. I began opening drawers, my hands trembling. Stationery. A heavy gold lighter. A hand-tooled leather ledger. Nothing. Then, I saw it—a thin manila folder tucked under a heavy crystal paperweight.
The name on the tab was written in bold, black ink: SOKOLOVA.
I pulled it out, my breath catching. Inside were photos. Not just of me, but of my father. Photos of us at the park when I was a child. Photos of me walking to work last week. Dimitri hadn't just found me when the debt came due; he had been watching me. For a long time.
I flipped the page, and the air left my lungs. It was a transcript of a ledger, but it wasn't just gambling debts.
My father hadn't just lost money at a card table. He had been "skimming." He was an accountant for one of Dimitri's shell companies, and he had been funneling money—thousands, then tens of thousands—into a private account.
"Oh, Papa," I whispered, the paper crinkling under my grip.
He hadn't been a victim of bad luck. He had been a thief. He had stolen from the Volkovs, the one family you never, ever cross. He hadn't just gambled my future; he had sold it the moment he took that first dollar.
But as I read further, my blood turned to ice. There was a handwritten note clipped to the back of the file. *'The Sokolov debt is higher than reported. The Italians have caught wind of the embezzlement. They want the girl as leverage against the Volkov expansion. They intend to use her and discard her.'*
I staggered back, the file slipping from my fingers and scattering across the dark floor.
Dimitri hadn't bought me to punish my father. He hadn't bought me just for a six-month contract.
He had intercepted me.
"You were never supposed to find that."
The voice was like a gunshot in the silent room.
I whirled around, my heart leaping into my throat. Standing in the doorway wasn't Dimitri. It was Yuri, his head of security. Yuri was a wall of a man, his face a map of scars and cold indifference. He was leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his massive chest, a Glock 17 visible in his shoulder holster.
"Yuri," I gasped, trying to kick the papers under the desk, but it was too late.
He didn't move. He just looked at the scattered files with a grim kind of pity. "The Pakhan told you to stay out of his business, Maya. He went to great lengths to keep the ugliness out of your sight."
"He lied to me," I said, my voice shaking with a mix of fury and terror. "He said it was just about the three million. He didn't tell me I was being hunted by the Italians. He didn't tell me my father was a thief!"
Yuri stepped into the room, his heavy boots thudding on the floor. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. "Your father was a dead man the moment he touched Volkov money. Dimitri gave him a quick death. That was a mercy. And you?" He stopped inches from me, looming like a mountain. "You are the only thing keeping a war from breaking out in this city. And you just broke the only rule that keeps you safe."
He reached for the radio on his belt.
"Don't," I pleaded.
"I have my orders, Sokolova," Yuri said, his voice hard. "Dimitri is ten minutes away. I suggest you go back to your room and start thinking of a very good apology. Because when he finds out you've been in here... even he might not be able to protect you from his temper."
He didn't wait for me to move. He grabbed my arm—not roughly, but with the immovable strength of a machine—and began ledging me toward the door.
I looked back at the scattered papers on the floor. My life, my father's lies, and the secret war for my soul were lying there in the dust. I wasn't just a wife. I was a shield. And I had just spit in the face of the man holding it.