Chapter 13
ELENA
The evening light slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the living room, turning the marble floors into pools of molten gold.
Dust motes drifted lazily in the warmth of the sunset.
I sat cross-legged on the thick Persian rug, still wearing the soft linen sundress I’d chosen earlier that day — pale ivory, light as air, cinched at the waist with a thin braided silk belt.
It was the kind of effortless elegance Ruslan had begun gifting me in quiet abundance after Daphne was born, as if dressing me beautifully was another way he tried to protect something fragile.
My hair fell loose down my back in dark waves.
Bare feet tucked beneath me.
The house felt too quiet.
No echo of Ruslan’s deep voice.
No footsteps from Yannis racing through the halls.
No faint sound of his security team moving through the corridors.
Just silence.
Daphne was kneeling a few feet away, completely immersed in her world.
Our three-year-old miracle.
She wore a delicate cream cashmere romper from a Paris atelier Ruslan had personally commissioned after hearing about the brand from one of his contacts.
The fabric was impossibly soft, hugging her small frame like a cloud. Pearl buttons lined the front. Tiny lace detailing framed the cuffs and collar.
A matching ribbon tied her dark curls into a loose bow at the crown of her head.
On her feet were miniature leather ballet slippers in soft rose — the soles whispering gently against the rug whenever she shifted.
She looked like a painting.
Or a dream that had learned how to breathe.
In her tiny hands she carefully arranged a wooden dollhouse — no plastic, no bright synthetic colors. It was crafted from polished walnut and light birch, each surface smooth and warm. Silk curtains hung from the miniature windows.
Tiny velvet chairs rested in the living room inside.
She had placed felted wool figures around the house.
Mama.
Papa — complete with a tiny black eye patch stitched over one eye because, in her words, “Daddy needs one.”
And a small baby figure she called “Me.”
She rearranged them with serious concentration.
Scattered beside her were heirloom wooden blocks engraved with letters, a soft Italian lamb plush, and a small music box that played Brahms’ lullaby whenever she wound it.
She leaned closer to the dollhouse and whispered, “Papa proteck Mama.”
Then she moved the tiny figure with the eye patch closer to the Mama doll and made them stand guard.
My chest tightened.
Last night had felt like a memory I wanted to preserve forever.
Ruslan and Yannis — now tall, intelligent, and already carrying the quiet weight of leadership — had joined us for dinner on the terrace before flying back to Athens.
The table had been covered in candlelight.
Yannis had teased his father about the years Ruslan tried — and failed — to understand American slang.
“Dad, nobody says ‘lit’ like that anymore,” Yannis had laughed.
Ruslan had narrowed his eye.
“I will say it however I want.”
Daphne had burst into giggles and reached across the table to smear spaghetti sauce directly onto Ruslan’s eyepatch.
He hadn’t even reacted.
He had just blinked once — then scooped her up and spun her around until she shrieked in delight.
Yannis had watched them with an expression I couldn’t quite read — something between admiration and longing.
At the airport, Ruslan had turned to me.
His fingers had threaded through my hair, pulling me close.
“Eight days,” he said quietly. “That’s all.”
“I know.”
His lips had claimed mine — slow, deep, possessive — like he needed to remind himself I was real before leaving.
“And don’t overthink while I’m gone,” he added softly.
“Impossible.”
He had smirked. “Good. I prefer you reckless.”
Now —
The silence felt heavier.
Daphne’s small voice cut through it.
“Mama...”
She pointed toward the massive glass wall that overlooked the gardens.
I followed her finger.
My stomach dropped.
Two men stood near the fountain.
Motionless. Unblinking.
They wore dark suits and sunglasses despite the fading daylight. Their posture was rigid — hands clasped in front of them — like statues placed deliberately in the open lawn.
They were far too close.
Security should have intercepted them before they reached this position.
Snipers were stationed on the perimeter ridges.
Motion sensors lined the property.
Drones monitored aerial intrusion.
Every patrol route was timed in fifteen-minute intervals.
So why were these men standing there untouched?
My pulse began to hammer.
Daphne tilted her head up at me.
“Who dat, Mama?”
Her tone was curious — not afraid.
I forced my breathing to slow.
“Just... visitors, sweetheart.”
I forced a smile that felt fragile — like it might shatter if Daphne looked at it too long.
“Keep playing, okay? Mama’s going to check something.”
She nodded obediently, already turning back to her dollhouse.
I crossed the room toward the window, my bare feet silent against the cool marble.
As I got closer, the figures outside sharpened into brutal clarity.
Harris.
Still immaculate — blond hair perfectly styled, suit tailored to perfection, posture relaxed like he owned the ground beneath him.
And beside him —
Vasquez.
My father.
Older now.
Harder.
His face carved from stone and ambition, eyes dark and assessing as they scanned the mansion like predators evaluating prey.
My chest tightened violently.
Three years.
Three years since I had stood in front of them and refused their demands.
Three years since they tried to force me to divorce Ruslan and marry Harris — all to merge power, territory, and control into some grotesque alliance.
Ruslan had responded then with humiliation.
Not blood.
Not negotiation.
He had dismantled their leverage piece by piece.
And now —
They were back.
Standing on my lawn like trespassers who believed they had authority.
How had they bypassed the perimeter?
The security system was military-grade.
Nothing should have slipped through.
I stepped back from the glass slowly.
My heartbeat thundered in my ears.
Daphne was still kneeling beside her dollhouse, humming softly to herself, completely unaware that danger stood only meters away from where she played.
I moved quickly.
Quietly.
I lifted her into my arms.
Her romper was warm against my skin — soft cream cashmere, delicate pearl buttons pressing gently into my forearm.
“Where we going, Mama?” she asked curiously.
“Special mission,” I whispered.
I carried her across the room to the hidden alcove behind the grand piano.
Ruslan had designed it after the first credible threat against our family.
He had laughed while explaining it to me.
“In case someone thinks they can take what’s mine.”
The bookshelf panel disguised a reinforced chamber — soundproof, ventilated, stocked with emergency supplies.
Inside were bottled water, snacks, a tablet loaded with cartoons, and a secure communication device that linked directly to Petros.
It was our safe room.
Our last line of defense.
I knelt in front of Daphne, cupping her small face in my hands.
“Listen carefully.”
Her blue eyes — identical to Ruslan’s — locked onto mine.
“I need you to stay inside this secret room. Be very quiet. No talking. No opening the door. Not unless Mama comes for you.”
She nodded seriously.
“Like mouse.”
“Yes. Like a tiny brave mouse.”
“Papa hide me here too?”
My throat tightened.
“Yes.”
She seemed reassured by that.
I kissed her forehead, then gently placed her inside.
She hugged her little lamb plush tightly.
“Protect Mama,” she whispered.
My heart cracked.
“I will.”
I slid the panel shut.
It clicked seamlessly into place.
The moment the door sealed, loud pounding erupted through the house.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
Heavy impacts against the reinforced double doors.
The sound reverberated through the foyer like artillery strikes.
They weren’t knocking.
They were announcing dominance.
I grabbed my phone from the coffee table — my fingers trembling so violently I almost dropped it.
Petros.
I called.
Four rings.
Straight to voicemail.
My stomach sank.
I tried again.
Nothing.
Again.
Dead silence.
“Petros,” I breathed. “Answer me...”
No response.
My throat went dry.
If they had neutralized him, that meant they had internal access.
Or worse — betrayal.
I immediately called Ruslan.
His flight had left hours ago.
He should still be airborne.
Phone likely off.
But I dialed anyway.
It rang.
Once.
Twice.
Voicemail.
I tried again — rapid-fire.
Voicemail.
Voicemail.
Voicemail.
“Ruslan...” My voice broke as panic clawed its way up my spine.
“Please.”
I called Yannis.
No answer.
I called my six brothers — one after another — fingers shaking, eyes locked on the door that continued to shudder under impact.
Nothing.
No ringing.
No callbacks.
No response.
Someone had disrupted communications.
Or jammed signals.
The pounding intensified.
Metal.
Heavy.
Strategic.
A battering ram.
The doors vibrated violently but held — bulletproof, titanium core reinforced with internal locking mechanisms.
For now.
I moved toward the foyer, pressing my back against the wall beside the entrance.
My breath came shallow.
I forced strength into my voice.
“What do you want?”
The pounding stopped.
Silence stretched.
Then —
Harris spoke first.
His tone was smooth.
Mocking.
“Elena. You always did love dramatic entrances.”
My jaw tightened.
Then my father’s voice followed — colder, deeper, more calculated.
“Patience, daughter.”
The word daughter sounded like ownership.
Like entitlement.
“When you attempt to destroy a king, you observe his weaknesses first. You wait for opportunity. You exploit distance.”
My blood ran cold.
He continued calmly.
“Your husband left. We monitored the flight path. Greece called him home. That decision was predictable — and convenient. Ruslan Baranov controls power best when he is present. But power cannot protect territory from coordinated action when its ruler is absent.”