Chapter 9
HANNAH
Iwake up in a room that belongs in an architectural magazine.
Everything is clean lines and muted colors from the gray silk curtains to the black furniture.
It's beautiful in that soulless, expensive way that screams interior designer rather than human inhabitant.
A beautiful black and white shag rug marks the sitting area in front of the fireplace, with another near the bed. The room is opulent and truly stunning.
The bed is enormous and ridiculously comfortable, which only makes me more annoyed. I don't want to be comfortable here. I don't want to sleep well in my gilded prison or appreciate the thread count of these sheets.
I turn to check the time and frown when I see a folded piece of paper with my name written in bold, masculine handwriting.
“What the hell?”
When had that been put there?
My stomach clenches as I unfold it.
House Rules For your safety and the safety of others
1. You are not permitted to leave the estate grounds without escort
2. No phone calls, emails, or outside communication without permission
3. All meals will be provided—do not enter the kitchen unsupervised
4. Certain areas of the house are off-limits (marked clearly)
5. Staff have been instructed not to assist with communication or transportation
6. Cooperation ensures everyone's wellbeing
The bottom is signed with a simple "D" in that same confident script.
I stare at the list, fury building in my chest like a pressure cooker about to explode. This isn't protection—it's imprisonment with better thread count.
But the fury is quickly replaced by a wave of nausea that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the secret I'm carrying. I press a hand to my stomach and breathe in through my nose.
I need to tell him.
The thought hits me like a freight train. Dante has a right to know he's going to be a father again. Maybe if I tell him about the baby, he'll let me go. Maybe he'll realize that keeping me here puts his unborn child at risk too.
Or maybe he'll see it as even more leverage to use against my father.
The idea of lying crosses my mind—tell him I'm pregnant with another man's baby, make myself less valuable as a bargaining chip. But the thought dies before it's fully formed. Dante isn't stupid, and if he finds out I lied about something this important, I have no idea how he would react.
A man who can order someone's death probably doesn't take deception well.
I push the thought away and focus on getting dressed. Someone—I don't want to know who—has provided me with clothes in exactly my size. Jeans, sweaters, even underwear that fits perfectly. The efficiency of it is both impressive and deeply unsettling.
I have never been a hard sleeper, but apparently, sleeping on the equivalent of a cloud and a parade could march through my bedroom and I wouldn’t know it.
Then another thought occurs—did he drug me?
I think back and we all ate and drank the same things. I didn’t feel drugged when I went to bed. I was just that tired.
The pregnancy. I remember a friend of mine a couple of years ago said she felt like she’d been shot in the ass with a tranquilizer.
The hallway outside my room is wide and elegant, lined with artwork that probably belongs in museums. Like actually in museums. I was dealing with criminals. The stuff was probably heisted and sold on the black market.
But as I explore, I start to notice other things. The subtle cameras tucked into crown molding. The way certain hallways seem to have staff members who aren't really cleaning but are definitely watching. The fact that every window I pass has a clear view of guards patrolling the grounds.
This isn't just a house. It's a fortress.
I follow the scent of coffee and bacon down a sweeping staircase, past oil paintings of stern-faced men who share Dante's bone structure.
Family portraits, I realize. Generations of Sokolovs who probably ruled their piece of Chicago with iron fists and Italian leather shoes.
The old school mobsters that carried around Tommy guns.
The kitchen is enormous, all granite counters and stainless-steel appliances, but it feels warm and lived-in. Mila sits at a breakfast bar, her legs swinging as she works through a plate of pancakes cut into star shapes.
"Hannah!" She beams when she sees me. "You're awake! Maria made pancakes—do you want some?"
A woman in her fifties looks up from the stove, her kind face creased with smile lines. She nods at me with the sort of polite distance that suggests she's been instructed not to get too friendly with the prisoner.
"Can I just make myself a cup of tea?" I ask.
“I’ll get it,” Maria says. “Would you prefer coffee instead?”
“No, thank you.”
I have to remember coffee is a no go for now. I need to find out what is safe and what should be avoided.
"Papa says coffee is not good for ladies," Mila announces with the authority of someone repeating adult wisdom she doesn't fully understand. "He drinks it all the time though."
"Your papa sounds like a hypocrite."
Mila giggles like I've said something delightfully scandalous. "What's a hypocrite?"
"Someone who—"
"Someone who says one thing and does another."
The voice comes from behind me. I don't need to turn around to know who it is. Dante moves into the kitchen with that predatory grace, looking annoyingly put-together in dark slacks and a white shirt that is perfectly pressed and without a single blemish.
"Papa!" Mila launches herself from her stool. Dante catches her like he does the same thing every morning. "Hannah is having breakfast with me!"
"I see that." His eyes meet mine over his daughter's head. I have to work not to shiver under that blue gaze. "Sleep well?"
"Like a baby.”
"Good." He sets Mila back on her stool and moves to the coffee machine. "Coffee?"
"I thought you said it wasn't good for ladies."
"I said a lot of things." He pours himself a cup, the motion casual and controlled. "Would you like some or not?"
My stomach churns at the smell, the same way it has every morning for the past two weeks. "I'm fine. Maria is making me some tea."
He studies me for a moment, and I wonder if he can see the truth written on my face. But he just nods and takes a sip of his coffee.
"I found your list," I say, pulling the paper from my pocket.
"Good. Questions?"
"Several." I unfold it deliberately. "Starting with number one. What constitutes an escort? Can I walk to the kitchen alone, or do I need a security detail to go to the bathroom?"
Mila snorts with laughter. "You don't need help going potty."
"Your confidence is reassuring," I tell her solemnly.
Dante's mouth twitches, but his voice remains neutral. "The gardens are acceptable. The perimeter is not."
"Define perimeter."
"The fence line."
"And if I want to leave the perimeter?"
"Then you ask permission."
"From you."
"Yes."
I fold the list back up, fighting to keep my voice level. "So I'm a prisoner."
"You're under protection."
"Same thing."
"Not even close." He moves closer, and I catch the scent of the expensive cologne and something darker, more dangerous. Most smells trigger my nausea, but his scent just makes me want to bask in it for hours. I inhale through my nose. "Protection keeps you alive. Prison just keeps you contained."
"And what's to stop me from walking out that front door right now?"
"Nothing," he says quietly. "Except the fact that you won't make it to the gate."
The casual way he says it makes my blood run cold. "Is that a threat?"
"It's a fact." He sips his coffee. "There are people who want to hurt you, Hannah. People who would use you to send a message to your father and to me. Here, you're safe. Out there, you're a target."
"Maybe I'm willing to take that risk."
"Maybe I'm not willing to let you."
The words hang between us, loaded with implications I don't want to examine too closely. Mila continues eating her pancakes, blissfully unaware of the tension crackling through the air.
"I need fresh air," I announce, standing abruptly.
"The gardens—"
"Are acceptable, yes, I heard you."
Maria puts a cup of hot water down in front of me along with honey, several tea bags in varying flavors and a spoon. It’s all so formal.
“Thank you.”
A moment later, a plate of pancakes is slid in front of me.
“Eat,” Dante says. “I have a meeting. Remember the rules.”
He leans down and kisses Mila on the head before walking away.
I think I’m a little jealous he didn’t drop a kiss on my head.
The smell of the pancakes is amazing. I want to be petulant. I want to throw a fit and go on a hunger strike, but I am just not that strong. I take a bite and tell myself I’m doing it for the baby.
After breakfast, Mila is whisked away by her nanny to clean up for the day and tackle a piano lesson that she really wants no part of.
I take advantage of being alone—which is a relative term.
I head for the French doors that lead to the terrace, needing space to think. The morning air is crisp and clean, carrying the scent of roses and fresh cut lawn.
The gardens are beautiful, I'll give him that. Winding paths lead through carefully tended beds of flowers I can't name, past fountains and benches positioned for maximum serenity. It's the kind of place where you could forget the world exists, if the world wasn't currently holding you hostage.
I walk until I reach the fence—a work of art that manages to look decorative while clearly being functional. The iron bars are topped with what look like roses but are probably razor wire cleverly disguised.
There's a gate about fifty yards away, manned by two guards who try to look casual but are clearly watching my every move. I walk toward them, my heart pounding with false confidence.
"Excuse me," I call out. "I need to leave."
The larger guard—a man who looks like he bench-presses small cars—shakes his head. "Sorry, miss. No one in or out without authorization."
"I'm authorizing myself."
"Doesn't work that way."
I try a different approach. "I'm not a prisoner here. I have rights."
"Talk to the boss about your rights."
"The boss is the problem."
The guard shrugs with the indifference of someone who's had this conversation before. Probably with other women who thought they could reason their way to freedom.
And that pisses me off.
Am I the first woman he’s gone all caveman on?
That son of a bitch.
I have zero right to be jealous, but I am.
I stand there for a long moment, staring at the gate that might as well be on the moon for all the good it does me. The guard's radio crackles with Russian I don't understand. I realize they're probably reporting my escape attempt to Dante right now.
Perfect.
I turn away from the gate and walk deeper into the gardens, fury and frustration building until I can barely breathe.
This is insane. All of it. Yesterday morning I was a successful real estate agent with nothing more complicated than a possible pregnancy to worry about.
Now I'm trapped on an estate by the father of my unborn child, while my own father sits in his office pretending he's not a criminal accountant for the Russian mob.
I find myself in a secluded corner of the garden, surrounded by hedges that provide the illusion of privacy. That's when the tears start.
Not delicate, feminine tears, but ugly, angry sobs that shake my whole body. I'm furious at my father for lying to me my entire life. Furious at Dante for turning my world upside down. Furious at myself for being attracted to a man who's holding me prisoner.
And terrified about the baby growing inside me.
"Hey."
The voice is soft, concerned. I look up through my tears to see Bogdan approaching, his expression gentle in a way that surprises me.
"You okay?"
I almost laugh at the absurdity of the question. "Do I look okay?"
"Not really." He settles onto the bench beside me, careful to leave space between us. "Want to talk about it?"
"With you?"
"I know I'm not your first choice for a confidant," he says with a self-deprecating smile. "But sometimes it helps to talk to someone who understands the situation."
"Do you understand it?" I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. "Because I sure as hell don't."
"Your world got turned upside down overnight. Your father isn't who you thought he was, and now you're caught in the middle of something you never asked to be part of." His voice is surprisingly gentle. "Yeah, I understand that."
"Then maybe you can explain why Dante thinks this is protecting me."
Bogdan is quiet for a long time, staring out at the gardens. "Have you ever seen what happens when rival families want to send a message?"
I shake my head.
"It's not pretty. And it's not quick." He turns to look at me, his eyes serious. "Your father's situation has created enemies for us. For him. For you. Here, you're safe."
"For how long?"
"Until the situation is resolved."
"And if it's not? What happens to me then?"
Another long silence. "Dante won't let anything happen to you."
"How can you be so sure?"
He studies my face, and I have the uncomfortable feeling he's seeing more than I want him to. "Because I know my cousin. He doesn't do anything without a reason, and he doesn't protect people unless they matter to him."
The words send a chill through me. "I don't matter to him. We barely know each other."
"If you say so." But his tone suggests he doesn't believe me any more than I believe myself.
"I just want to go home," I whisper.
"I know." His hand briefly covers mine, a gesture of comfort that surprises me. "But home isn't an option for you. I think you should be grateful Dante is being generous.”
“Generous?” I scoff.
Anger flashes through Bogdan’s eyes before it’s gone in a heartbeat. “Dante kills those that betray him. He kills their families. Normally, he would have killed your father and you. Instead, he’s giving your father a chance to pay him back.”
I’m definitely picking up on anger.
Did Bogdan want us dead?
I look around at the beautiful gardens, the armed guards, the fence that keeps me trapped as surely as any prison bars. "This feels like a cage."
"Sometimes cages are the safest place to be," Bogdan says quietly. "Especially when there are wolves prowling outside."
Despite my suspicions about him, despite the way he made my skin crawl yesterday, there's something comforting about his presence right now. Maybe it's just because he's being kind to me when kindness feels like a rare commodity.
"Thank you," I say finally. "For listening."
"Anytime." He stands, brushing off his pants.
He walks away, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the growing certainty that there's so much more to this situation than anyone is telling me.
Including the secret I'm carrying that could change everything.