Chapter 8
HANNAH
The SUV winds through increasingly exclusive neighborhoods until we reach gates that wouldn't look out of place protecting a government facility.
Tall iron bars topped with decorative spikes that I'm pretty sure aren't just decorative.
I would guess they are defense like barbed wire around a prison.
There are cameras positioned at strategic angles, and guards who nod respectfully as our vehicle passes through.
How rich is this guy?
The estate beyond the gates is massive—not just big house massive, but legitimate compound massive.
Manicured lawns stretch in every direction, dotted with mature trees that probably cost more than most people's cars. The main house rises before us like something out of a movie. White brick that seemed to stretch on forever. I couldn’t see the entire house, but my experience with real estate told me it was at least ten thousand square feet.
"Welcome to your new home," Dante says as we pull up to the front entrance.
"Temporary accommodations," I correct, though my voice lacks conviction.
"We'll see."
Last night I accepted my fate. I told myself I just had to survive a week. When he opened the door this morning, he announced we were moving to his house outside the city.
A house was not the right word for this place.
A man in an expensive suit opens my door before I can do it myself. I resist the urge to thank him. I'm not a guest here. I'm cargo. There's a difference, even if everyone wants to pretend otherwise.
The front door is solid wood with iron hardware that looks like it could stop a battering ram. Which, considering what I now know about Dante's line of work, it probably could.
But when we step inside, something unexpected happens. The house... it doesn't feel like a fortress. It feels like a home.
The entryway opens into a living space that's warm and inviting, with comfortable furniture that looks actually lived-in rather than staged for a magazine shoot. There are books scattered on side tables and family photos in frames that don't match but somehow work together.
"This isn't what I expected," I admit.
"What did you expect?"
I think about it. "Marble statues, maybe some medieval weapons on the walls. A throne made of skulls."
The corner of his mouth twitches. "Well obviously the throne is in the throne room.”
Despite everything, I almost smile. Almost.
"Your room is upstairs," he says, but I'm already moving away from him, drawn by something I can barely hear.
A soft voice, singing in what sounds like Russian. The melody is hauntingly beautiful, rising and falling like a gentle breeze. I follow the sound without really thinking about it, my feet carrying me toward the living room.
That's where I see her.
A little girl sits cross-legged on the carpet, surrounded by art supplies, completely absorbed in her drawing. She can't be more than seven, with dark hair that falls in soft waves around her face and blue eyes that are very familiar.
She looks up when she senses me watching. Her face breaks into a smile that's so pure, so genuinely happy, that it takes my breath away.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out this is Dante’s daughter. She’s the spitting image of him.
Dante has a daughter.
"What's your name?" I ask.
I can feel him in the room, but he says nothing.
"Mila. Do you want to see what I'm drawing?"
I sink down onto the carpet beside her, my legs suddenly unsteady. "I'd love to."
She launches into an elaborate explanation of her artwork. It looks like a garden scene. The garden has every flower she can think of because flowers make people happy. She points out the two stick figures—a tall one and a shorter one with long black hair.
I’m going to assume that’s her and possibly Dante.
And because I’m shameless and I need to know exactly what I’m getting into, I have to ask. It’s a question I should have asked Dante before I ever slept with him.
"Where's your mama?" I ask gently.
The little girl offers a small smile. "Mama is in heaven. She went there when I was little."
The simple way she says it breaks my heart. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay. Papa says she watches over us from there." She brightens again with the resilience only children possess. "Do you want to draw with me?"
I glance over my shoulder and see Dante watching us. The cold, controlled mask slips, replaced by something so tender it makes my chest ache.
"Milaya," he says, and even though I don't speak Russian, the endearment is clear in his tone. "What are you drawing?"
"The garden I want. You said we could make a big garden."
Mila jumps up and throws herself at Dante with the complete trust only a beloved child can show.
He catches her easily, lifting her into his arms like she weighs nothing.
The transformation is complete. This isn't the dangerous man who threatened my father and held me prisoner.
This is just a dad, completely devoted to his little girl.
“The landscaper will meet with us next week,” he tells her. “You can tell him all your garden dreams.”
“I want lots of flowers!”
"Very good." He sets her down gently. "Why don't you finish your masterpiece while I talk with Hannah in the garden?"
Mila returns to her art, already absorbed again in her creative world. Dante gestures toward French doors that lead outside. I follow him onto a stone terrace that overlooks gardens that belong in a fairy tale.
"You didn't tell me you had a daughter," I say once we're out of earshot.
"You didn't ask."
"That's not exactly the kind of thing that comes up in casual conversation." We walk a little farther away. "She's beautiful."
"She's everything." The simple honesty in his voice is devastating. "Her mother died when she was two. A rival family decided to send a message."
The implication hits me like a physical blow. "They killed her mother?"
"Car bomb. Meant for me, but Katya was driving my car that day." His jaw tightens. "Mila was at home with the nanny. If she'd been in that car..."
He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't need to.
"I'm sorry," I say, and I mean it. Whatever else Dante might be, he's a father who lost the mother of his child to violence.
We walk through the grounds and around an herb garden that suggests someone tends to this place with love. It's hard to reconcile this peaceful sanctuary with the violent world Dante inhabits.
“You’ll be able to move freely around the compound,” he says. His voice is hard with no emotion. “There are guards everywhere. Don’t try to run. Behave yourself and I won’t lock you in a room.”
I scowl at him. “Gee, thanks.”
“I have a meeting. Do not talk to my daughter about anything. Is that clear?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not a monster. Unlike her father.”
He says nothing as we start the walk back into the house.
When we step inside, I hear male voices, speaking in rapid Russian echo across the foyer.
Mila jumps up from where she was on the floor.
"Uncle Bogdan! Uncle Bogdan's here!"
She throws herself at a man I recognize from the scene outside the coffee shop. The man with the cold eyes and calculating smile. Up close, he's larger than I remembered. Like a massive box with arms.
"Little princess!" Bogdan catches Mila and spins her around, his harsh features softening into genuine affection. "Have you been good for Papa?"
"The best! We have a visitor—her name is Hannah, and she has the prettiest hair!"
I watch as this man who looks like he could break someone in half melts under the attention of a seven-year-old girl.
"Does she now?" Bogdan's eyes find mine. I suppress a shiver. There's something calculating in his gaze, something that makes me want to step closer to Dante. "We should meet this mysterious visitor."
"Bogdan," Dante says, his voice carefully neutral. "I thought we were meeting later.”
"Family business couldn't wait." Bogdan sets Mila down but keeps hold of her hand. "Besides, I wanted to formally meet your house guest.”
The way he says 'guest' makes it clear he knows exactly what my situation is. I wonder what he thinks about Dante keeping me here. Does he approve? Is the voice of reason?
No.
There was something in his eyes. Dante was a predator but Bogdan…it felt different.
"Hannah, this is my cousin Bogdan," Dante says. "Bogdan, Hannah Quinn."
I force myself to step forward and offer my hand. "Nice to meet you."
Bogdan's handshake is firm, but when he smiles at me, something cold slithers down my spine. The expression doesn't reach his eyes.
Then Mila tugs on his sleeve, demanding his attention. His smile transforms into something genuine. He scoops her up again, spinning her until she squeals with laughter. I see genuine warmth in his interaction with her.
Maybe I'm being paranoid. Maybe the stress of the situation is making me see threats where none exist.
I watch Bogdan play with Mila, making her giggle with silly faces and exaggerated voices. I can't shake the feeling that something is very wrong. He's too smooth, too charming, too quick to shift between calculating assessment and jovial uncle.
"Papa, can Uncle Bogdan stay for dinner?" Mila asks.
"If he wants to," Dante says, though I catch the tension in his voice.
"Another time, little princess," Bogdan says, setting her down gently. "Uncle has work to do. But I promise to visit again soon."
Mila pouts but accepts the promise, hugging his legs before running back toward her little setup on the floor. "I'm going to finish my drawing!"
When she's out of earshot, the atmosphere changes. The warmth disappears from Bogdan's expression, replaced by business-like focus.
"We need to talk," he tells Dante.
"Later."
"Now."
The single word carries enough weight to make Dante nod. He looks at me. “Stay.”
“I’m not a dog.”
"No," Bogdan says, his smile sharp as a blade. "You're collateral. Which means you go where you're told."
The casual cruelty in his tone makes my blood boil, but before I can respond, Dante steps between us.
I want to argue. I want to stand my ground and prove that I'm not a piece of actual collateral. But the look in Dante's eyes stops me. Something tells me I need to listen.
This time.
I spin on my heels and dismiss them before they can say another word. I sit down next to Mila. “Can I color with you?” I ask.
“Sure,” Mila smiles.
I glance up and watch Dante leave the room. He pauses and looks over his shoulder at me. I can’t explain what it is, but I get the feeling he’s warning me.
I think I’m going to heed that warning—just this once.