Chapter 18
HANNAH
The water runs lukewarm before I realize I've been standing in the shower for twenty minutes.
My body is still humming with adrenaline from the false alarm.
Every nerve ending is on high alert like I'm waiting for another crisis to explode around me.
I scrub at my skin mechanically, watching the water swirl down the drain, trying to wash away the fear that's lodged itself somewhere deep in my chest. When I picked up Mila and run, I wasn’t just protecting her.
I was protecting my baby. That surge of adrenaline was all mother instinct.
I could have lost it today. If the alarm had been real, if bullets had started flying, if something had gone wrong in those frantic minutes running to the panic room—
The thought makes me physically ill.
When I finally step out, the mirror is fogged over—a blessing, because I'm not sure I want to see my reflection right now. I wipe a circle clear anyway, forcing myself to look.
The woman staring back at me is a stranger.
She has my red hair, my green eyes, my freckles. But there's something different. Something harder, more weathered. Like she's aged years in the span of weeks. Her face is too pale, her eyes shadowed with exhaustion.
I barely recognize her.
I leave the bathroom and pull out more of the new clothes that just keep showing up in my room. I don’t even question them anymore.
This is my life now.
I dress in silence, pulling on my leggings and big, fluffy hoodie I can snuggle in. The clothing is armor. I can hide behind the soft layers.
A knock at the door interrupts my spiral into what-ifs. Before I can respond, it opens, and Dante steps inside like he has every right to be here. He silently closes the door behind him and traps me inside with him.
In my room.
Maybe he does. This is his house, after all. His kingdom. His rules.
"You didn't wait for permission," I say, my voice flat.
"I don't need permission." He looks at me with those blue eyes that see too much. "How are you?"
"Fine."
"Liar."
The single word hangs between us, a challenge and an accusation rolled into one. I want to argue and pretend I'm handling all of this with grace and composure. But I'm too tired for lies right now.
"What do you want, Dante?"
He doesn't answer immediately. Just moves further into the room, his presence filling the space in that way he has—like he's too big for ordinary rooms, too intense for casual conversation.
"I shouldn't have left you outside," he says finally.
I frown. That was not what I was expecting to hear. "What?"
"This afternoon. I left you and Mila in the garden without adequate protection." His jaw tightens. "That was a mistake. If the alarm had been real—"
"But it wasn't."
"But it could have been." He runs a hand through his hair. "I'm supposed to keep you safe, and I failed."
"We're both fine," I tell him. “Not a hair on either of our heads was harmed.”
"This time."
The unspoken implication hangs heavy in the air. Next time, we might not be so lucky.
I should be angry at him for putting us in danger, for keeping me in a world where panic rooms and armed guards are necessary precautions. Instead, I find myself crossing the room to where he stands, reaching for his hand.
He takes it without hesitation. The contact grounds me, reminds me that I'm not alone in this strange space between captivity and something more complicated.
We sink onto the edge of my bed, sitting in silence, the distance between our bodies minimal but the distance between what we're thinking and what we're saying vast as an ocean.
I don’t know what to say to him. I don’t know what I should feel for him. My heart and brain are at war. Logic and emotion fighting for dominance. I’m a practical woman. I know this is wrong, but it feels so damn right.
"Katya died because I wasn't careful enough," he says suddenly. "I knew there were threats, knew people wanted me dead. But I thought I could control it. Thought I could keep my family separate from the violence."
I squeeze his hand, saying nothing, just letting him talk.
"She was driving my car. Taking Mila to ballet class. I'd gotten a flat tire that morning, so she offered to take mine while I dealt with it. The bomb was meant for me. Professional job, designed to detonate when the engine reached a certain temperature."
"Dante—"
"She didn't die instantly." His voice is flat now, emotionless in that way that means he's feeling too much.
"Lived long enough to make sure someone called about Mila.
She managed to tell the first responders that her daughter was at dance class.
Then she died in the ambulance, alone, because I was too late. "
The pain in his words is visceral, raw. I can picture it too clearly—Dante racing to the hospital, desperate to reach her, arriving just moments too late to say goodbye.
"That's not your fault," I say quietly.
"Isn't it?" He finally looks at me. The anguish in his eyes steals my breath.
"Everything I touch, everyone I care about becomes a target.
My enemies don't come for me directly—they go after the people I love, because that's how you destroy a man like me. Killing me is too easy. It’s not enough damage. I have to suffer for them to win."
"Is that why you're so protective of Mila?"
"It's why I'm protective of everyone who matters to me." His gaze intensifies. "Including you."
The words surprised me. Including me. I matter to him. Despite everything, despite the circumstances that brought me here, despite the lies and half-truths between us—I matter.
"It's dangerous letting anyone in. Every person I care about becomes a potential casualty in a war they never signed up for."
I laugh, though there's no humor in it. "I think it's a little late to worry about that."
"Is it?"
"You're holding my hand. You just told me I matter to you. You look at me like—" I stop myself before I say too much.
"Like what?"
"Like I'm not your prisoner."
"You're not," he says quietly. "You haven't been for a while now."
The admission should terrify me. Should make me demand to leave and go back to my real life where men don't kill people in their basements and daughters aren't raised in fortresses.
Instead, I find myself leaning closer, drawn by the vulnerability he's showing me. This isn't the cold, calculating pakhan who gives orders and expects obedience. This is just a man, haunted by his failures and terrified of losing the people he loves.
"I need to tell you something," I hear myself say.
He goes very still. "What?"
This is the moment. Right now, with his defenses down and his hand in mine, I need to tell him about the baby.
But the words stick in my throat.
What if he reacts badly? What if knowing about the baby makes me even more of a prisoner. What if he sees our child as just another asset to be managed, another piece in his criminal empire?
"Hannah?" His voice is gentle and patient. "What do you need to tell me?"
I open my mouth. Close it. Try again.
"I—" The words collapse before they can form. "It doesn't matter."
"It clearly matters to you."
"It's just—" I squeeze his hand, using the contact to anchor myself. "I'm scared. Of all of this. Of what it means that I don't hate being here anymore."
It's not a lie, exactly. Just not the whole truth.
He stares at me and I'm sure he can see right through my deflection. But instead of pushing, he just squeezes my hand back.
"You're exhausted," he says, noting the way my eyes are starting to droop despite the conversation. "The adrenaline is wearing off."
He's right. The crash is hitting me hard now, my body demanding rest after the sustained terror of this afternoon. I try to stifle a yawn and fail miserably.
"Come on," he says, standing and pulling me to my feet. "You need to sleep."
"I'm fine—"
"You're dead on your feet." He guides me toward the bed with gentle insistence. "Sleep. Everything else can wait."
I let him tuck me in like I'm a child, too tired to protest or maintain my pride. The moment my head hits the pillow, my eyes start to close.
"Dante?" I murmur, already half-asleep.
"Yes?"
"Stay. Just for a minute."
I feel him settle beside me, his weight dipping the mattress. His hand finds mine again under the covers. I hold on like he's the only thing keeping me tethered to earth.
"I'm scared of losing you," he says quietly, thinking I'm already asleep. "More scared than I've been of anything since Katya died. And I don't know what to do with that."
I want to respond and tell him I feel the same way. I want to tell him I'm terrified of how much he's come to mean to me. But sleep pulls me under before I can form the words.
When I wake later, the room is dark and Dante is gone. The blanket is tucked carefully around my shoulders. I can still smell his cologne on the pillow beside me—evidence that he was here, that the conversation wasn't just a dream.
I press my hand to my stomach.
The man has enough on his plate. I don’t want to add to his worry.
But I know something needs to happen. Either he believes my father is innocent or he kills him.
Can I love a man that kills my father? I know my father didn’t steal.
But then I remind myself I didn’t know my father like I thought I did.