Chapter 17
HANNAH
The garden is perfect today. I inhale and just let the scent of flowers spread through my body.
Every nerve ending lights up like a flower opening to the sun.
Sunlight filters through the leaves in that golden way that photographers spend hours trying to capture. The weather is beautiful. Not too hot.
Mila and I walk along the cobblestone path through the gardens that have definitely been upgraded since I’ve been here. And that’s all because Mila wanted more flowers. Her daddy spoils her. It’s the sweetest thing to see the big tough guy wrapped around her little finger.
Everything is still, peaceful, like the world beyond these walls doesn't exist.
Like I didn't watch cleanup crews remove a body from the basement yesterday.
Like I didn't call the man I'm falling for a monster and mean every word.
"Hannah, look!" Mila tugs on my hand, pointing to a butterfly that's landed on a nearby flower. "It's so pretty! Can we catch it?"
"Butterflies are meant to fly free," I say, the irony of my words not lost on me. "We can watch it, though."
She nods solemnly, creeping closer to the flower with exaggerated stealth that makes me smile.
She's so innocent, so untouched by the violence that funds this beautiful prison.
I wonder how Dante does it. How does he separate these two worlds so completely that his daughter can play in gardens watered with blood money and never know the difference.
I'm struggling to reconcile the two versions of him that exist in my mind.
There's the Dante who murders people in his basement and holds me captive.
The man who built an empire on fear and violence.
And then there's the Dante who reads bedtime stories to his daughter in silly voices and touches me like I'm a delicate flower. Well, not always, but I don’t mind the aggressive sex. It’s good.
And then when I think about the man who looked genuinely hurt when I called him a monster.
Which one is real? Or are they both real, somehow existing simultaneously in the same man?
"I wish Papa could see this," Mila says, still watching the butterfly. "He loves butterflies. He says butterflies are my mama coming to say hi.”
The casual mention of her dead mother makes my chest tighten. "I think that’s true. I like that."
“Papa says she grew the most beautiful flowers." Mila looks up at me with those blue eyes that are so much like her father's. "Do you think she can see us from heaven?"
The question catches me off guard with its earnestness. “She’s definitely watching over you."
"And Papa?"
"And your papa."
Mila seems satisfied with this answer and returns her attention to the butterfly, which has moved to another flower. I let her explore, staying close enough to supervise but giving her the space to discover things on her own.
The morning sickness was particularly bad today, and I'm exhausted from keeping up the pretense that everything is fine. Maria brought me ginger tea again this morning, along with crackers and that same knowing look that simultaneously comforts and terrifies me.
How much longer can I hide this? My jeans are getting tighter, and soon I'll start showing. Each day bringing me closer to the moment when I'll have to tell Dante the truth.
I'm so lost in thought that I almost don't register the sound at first.
A loud crack, like a gunshot or an explosion, shatters the peaceful afternoon. Birds explode from nearby trees, and somewhere in the distance, a car alarm starts wailing.
Mila freezes, her eyes going wide with fear.
"Hannah?"
Training I didn't know I had kicks in. I scoop Mila up in my arms and ran, my heart hammering against my ribs. She's heavier than she looks, but adrenaline gives me strength I didn't know I possessed.
"Get to the panic room!" A guard appears from nowhere with his weapon drawn. "Now! Move!"
I don't ask questions. Don't hesitate. I just run.
The panic room is in the house's interior, a reinforced space Dante showed me during my first week here. At the time, I thought it was excessive—paranoid, even. Now I'm grateful for his paranoia.
Mila buries her face in my neck, her small body trembling. "I'm scared."
"I know, baby. I know." I hold her tighter, my feet pounding against the stone path, then the hardwood floor as we enter the house. "But we're going to be okay. Your papa made sure of that."
The guard shepherds us through hallway. His urgency makes my own panic spike higher. What's happening? Is someone attacking? Are we under siege? If he’s scared, I just know I should be terrified.
The panic room door is already open when we reach it, another guard standing sentry with his weapon ready. The space is smaller than I remember, all steel walls and emergency supplies, a bunker designed to withstand whatever threatens from outside.
"Inside," the guard says, ushering us in. "Lock it behind you. Don't open for anyone except Mr. Sokolov or someone with the correct code."
"Wait—what's happening?"
But he's already closing the door, the heavy steel swinging shut with a finality that makes my stomach drop. The lock engages with a series of clicks and thuds, and suddenly we're sealed in.
Silence presses in, broken only by Mila's quiet whimpers and my own ragged breathing.
"It's okay," I tell her. "We're safe here. Your papa made sure we're safe."
"I want Papa," she whispers.
"I know. He'll come get us soon."
The panic room is equipped with everything we might need for an extended stay—water, food, medical supplies, even toys for Mila. But right now, all I can focus on is the monitor mounted on the wall, showing different views of the estate grounds.
I can't see any attackers. No breached walls, no armed intruders. Just guards moving with their weapons drawn, searching for threats that I can’t see.
I stare at the screen for what feels like hours.
A speaker crackles to life, and Dante's voice fills the small space. "Hannah. Mila. You're safe. Stay where you are until I come for you."
"Papa!" Mila jumps up, looking around for the source of his voice.
"The speaker, sweetheart," I tell her. "He can hear us."
"Papa, I'm scared!"
"I know, milaya. But Hannah is with you, and you're in the safest place in the house. I'll be there soon."
The connection cuts off, leaving us in silence again. I walk away from the screen. I trust Dante, which is a weird feeling. I sit down and relax for a minute. I don’t have to be vigilant. Dante has it handled.
Mila climbs into my lap, curling against me like she's trying to disappear into my embrace. I stroke her hair and murmur reassurances I don't fully believe, my mind racing through terrible possibilities.
Is this because of my father? Did someone come for revenge? Did Dante's enemies finally locate his weakness—his daughter, and by extension, me?
Time moves strangely in the panic room. Minutes feel like hours, each second stretching into eternity.
Mila eventually stops trembling. She finds a coloring book in the supplies and starts drawing.
"What are you drawing?" I ask, grateful for the distraction.
"You and Papa and me," she says matter-of-factly. "In the garden. With the butterfly."
I'm so focused on Mila's artwork that I almost miss the sound of the lock disengaging.
My head snaps up, my body tensing as the heavy door swings open. Every terrible scenario I've been imagining floods back—what if it's not Dante? What if someone breached the security, got the code, is coming for us now?
But it's him. Dante stands in the doorway. I've never been so relieved to see anyone in my life.
"Papa!" Mila launches herself at him, and he catches her easily, holding her close.
"I'm here, milaya. I'm here." He presses kisses to her hair, her forehead, checking her over with the kind of thorough attention only a worried parent can manage. "Are you hurt?"
"No. Hannah kept me safe."
His eyes meet mine over his daughter's head. There’s a hint of gratitude there, but maybe more. Maybe he’s telling me he trusts me. Yes, I’m his captive, but he trusts me to do right by his daughter.
"What happened?" I ask, my voice shakier than I'd like.
"False alarm," he says, his expression tight with residual tension. "A guard on perimeter patrol tripped a motion sensor. Protocol dictates we treat every alarm as real until confirmed otherwise."
The relief that floods through me is almost painful. "So we're not under attack?"
"No."
"No one's trying to kill us?"
"Not today."
The casual way he says it should terrify me. Instead, I find myself laughing—a slightly hysterical sound that makes Dante's expression soften.
"Come on," he says, extending his hand to me. "Let's get out of here."
I take his hand and allow him to pull me to my feet, and for a moment we're standing close enough that I can see the worry still lingering in his eyes.
"Thank you," he says quietly. "For protecting her."
"I didn't do anything."
"You got her to safety. That's everything. I saw the footage. I saw you carry her and manage to outrun my guard. Something I will be remedying soon.”
“It’s not his fault,” I quickly say. The last thing I want is a man killed because I got hit by a dose of adrenaline that gave me wings.
Mila wiggles in his arms, demanding to be put down now that the crisis has passed. "Can we go back to the garden? I want to see if the butterfly is still there."
"Not today," Dante tells her gently. "Let's go have some lunch. Maybe watch that movie you've been asking about."
As we walk through the house, Dante keeps Mila's hand in his, but his other hand finds mine, fingers lacing together like it's the most natural thing in the world. I’m not sure what the situation is. Maybe he’s lying about the false alarm. Maybe it’s true.
I just can’t bring myself to care because I know he’s got us. He’s going to keep us safe.
That’s enough.
I look down at our joined hands and I realize something terrifying.
I'm in love with him.
Not despite his darkness, but somehow because of it. Because he's both the monster who kills people in his basement and the father who drops everything to comfort his frightened daughter. Because he can be brutal and tender, controlled and passionate, dangerous and safe all at the same time.
That realization truly terrifies me.
Because loving Dante Sokolov means accepting a life I never wanted, in a world I don't understand, with dangers I can't predict.
I can't deny the truth anymore.
I'm already in too deep to find my way back out.