Chapter 12
HANNAH
The silk blouse feels different against my skin as I pull it on.
My lips are swollen from his kisses. I can feel the ghost of his hands on my body and the taste of him on my lips.
He steps away, doing up his pants and putting physical distance between us while the emotional connection crackles like electricity in the air.
The moment of intimacy is over, and the questions that have been burning inside me for two weeks surge back to the surface.
"I need to understand," I say, pulling on my jeans with hands that aren't quite steady. "About my father. About his involvement with your family."
Dante looks down at his shirt and seems to remember I tore off the buttons. He shrugs it off, balls it up and tosses it into the trash.
My body immediately reacts to all that naked skin.
Skin covered in a tapestry of tattoos. Skin I want to run my tongue across.
He walks to a closet, opens the door and pulls out another shirt.
Jealousy tears through me. Does the man often have afternoon rendezvous that require a fresh change of clothes?
I don’t care.
He’s not mine.
I watch as he puts on the shirt and starts to button it up. The passionate man from minutes ago has been replaced by the cold, calculating pakhan, though I can still see heat in his eyes when he looks at me.
"What do you want to know?"
"Everything." I settle into the chair across from his desk, trying to project a confidence I don't feel.
"How long has he worked for you? What exactly does he do? How deep is he in your world?"
"Twenty years," Dante says, moving behind his desk. "He started working for my father when you were just a child. Financial management, money laundering, tax avoidance strategies. Nothing violent, nothing that would put him in direct danger."
"Your father." The pieces click together in my mind. "Vadim Sokolov."
He nods, and something shifts in his expression. "You knew him."
It's not a question. I think about the kind older man who used to visit our house when I was growing up, who always brought me books and listened patiently to my endless chatter about school. Who attended my high school graduation and sent flowers when my mother died.
"Uncle Vadim," I whisper. "I always called him Uncle Vadim."
His expression tells me everything. I'm only beginning to understand my father’s role. All those visits, all those family dinners where Vadim Sokolov sat at our table and asked about my grades and my friends and my college plans—he wasn't just my father's friend.
He was his boss. His very dangerous, very illegal boss.
"He cared about you," Dante says quietly. "Used to talk about Richard's brilliant daughter and how proud he was of your achievements. Said you had more integrity in your little finger than most men had in their whole bodies."
Tears prick at my eyes.
"Because he was family,” Dante says quietly. “Not by blood, but by choice. That's how the Bratva works—loyalty creates bonds stronger than genetics."
The irony isn't lost on me. I'm sitting here, having just made love to the son of a man I genuinely loved. The man who was apparently the head of a criminal organization. My whole life has been touched by this world without me even knowing it.
"I had no idea," I say. "About any of it. The Bratva, what my father really did, who Vadim really was. I thought he was just a successful businessman who happened to be my dad's favorite client."
"Richard went to great lengths to protect you from this world. Different schools, different neighborhoods, layers of separation between his work life and his home life. He wanted you to have choices he never had."
"And now I'm here anyway."
"Now you're here anyway."
I lean forward, desperation making me bold. "Then you have to know he wouldn't betray your family. If he loved Vadim like a brother, if he spent twenty years building something with him, why would he throw it all away for money?"
"People do stranger things for five million dollars."
"Not my father." The conviction in my voice surprises even me. "Give me a chance to prove it."
Dante studies me. I can see him weighing options, calculating risks. "There's more evidence than what I've shown you. Things that would be difficult for you to see."
"I can handle it."
"Can you?" He opens a drawer and pulls out a thick manila folder. "This contains bank records, transaction logs, surveillance footage. If you're wrong about your father, if he really did steal from us, seeing this proof could destroy your relationship with him forever."
My hands shake as I reach for the folder, but I don't hesitate. "I'd rather know the truth than live with lies."
He slides it across the desk, his fingers brushing mine briefly. "I have a meeting. You can stay here, go through everything. But Hannah—if you find something you don't like, don't do anything stupid."
"Define stupid."
"Calling the police. Trying to warn your father. Attempting to leave the estate." His blue eyes bore into mine. "All of those things would end very badly for everyone involved."
I nod, clutching the folder like a lifeline. "I understand."
"Do you?" He stands and adjusts his shirt again. "This isn't a game."
"I said I understand."
He looks like he wants to say more, but his phone buzzes with what must be an urgent message. He checks it, his expression darkening.
"I'll be back in two hours," he says. "Stay in this room. Don't let anyone else see what you're looking at."
After he leaves, I move to take his seat on the other side of the massive desk. I spread the contents of the folder across his massive desk, my heart pounding as I prepare to dive into evidence that could shatter everything I believe about my father.
Bank statements from accounts that have way too much money.
Wire transfers in amounts that make my head spin.
Screenshots of emails discussing "merchandise" and "shipments" in language that seems innocuous but feels sinister.
And photos—surveillance photos of my father entering buildings, meeting with people, conducting business in shadowy corners of Chicago I never knew existed.
But the more I study the evidence, the more wrong it feels.
The timeline doesn't match my father's schedule. I remember him being home during times when these photos suggest he was across town conducting illegal business. The bank accounts are in his name, but the signatures don't quite match his careful, precise handwriting.
And the amount... five million dollars is a fortune to people like us, but it's also exactly the kind of round number that feels designed to get attention. If my father were really embezzling, wouldn't he be more subtle about it?
I find a yellow pad and start making notes. I'm good at organizing information and spotting inconsistencies in documentation. I do this for a living. I write contracts that protect my clients.
"Find anything interesting?"
The voice makes me jump. I look up to see Bogdan standing in the doorway.
"I—yes, actually." I gather the papers protectively, not sure how much I should reveal. "There are inconsistencies in the evidence."
"Inconsistencies?" He moves into the room without invitation, closing the door behind him. "What kind of inconsistencies?"
I hesitate. Something about his tone sets me on edge, but I need allies right now. If there's even a chance Bogdan might listen to reason...
"Timeline issues," I say carefully. "Dates that don't match up with where I know my father was."
"Memory can be unreliable," Bogdan says, settling into the chair across from Dante's desk. "Especially when we're trying to protect people we love."
"This isn't about memory. I know my father didn’t do this.”
“We know what we’re doing, Hannah.” His tone is soft, like he’s delivering bad news. “We take money very seriously.”
"You think I doctored evidence to protect my father?"
"I think daughters will do anything to believe their fathers are innocent, even when faced with overwhelming proof of their guilt."
His dismissiveness infuriates me. "You don't understand. My father loved Vadim like a brother. He would never betray that trust, especially not for money we didn't need."
"Didn't need?" Bogdan laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Your father is an accountant, Hannah. A very good one, but still just an employee. Five million dollars represents more money than he could make in a lifetime of honest work."
"We lived comfortably, but we weren't rich. If my father had been stealing millions, don't you think our lifestyle would have reflected that?"
"Smart thieves don't spend their stolen money immediately. They hide it, invest it, wait for the heat to die down before they enjoy their profits."
I shake my head, frustrated by his logic. "You're wrong about him."
"Am I?" Bogdan leans forward, his voice still gentle.
"Hannah, I know this is hard to accept, but we don't really know people like we think we do.
Families betray each other all the time.
Sons steal from fathers, brothers sell out brothers, daughters discover their parents aren't who they pretended to be. "
There's something in his tone that makes me look at him more carefully. "You sound like you're speaking from experience."
"It happens all the time.”
I shake my head. “Not this time. No way.”
"Accept the truth. Your father stole from us. The evidence is overwhelming and continuing to deny it will only make things worse for both of you."
But I can't accept it. Everything in my heart, everything I know about the man who raised me, tells me this is wrong. Richard Quinn isn't perfect, but he's not a thief. He's not a betrayer.
"I'm going to prove his innocence," I say quietly.
Bogdan's expression hardens. "Be careful, Hannah. Sometimes the truth isn't what we want to hear. And sometimes pursuing it can be dangerous for everyone involved."
The words sound like a warning, maybe even a threat. But I don't back down.
"Then I guess I'll have to take that risk."
He stands abruptly. "I hope you know what you're doing."
After he leaves, I return to the evidence with renewed determination. Somewhere in these papers is the truth.
And I'm going to find it.