Chapter 15
15
Mak
I watch Wil through the rearview mirror as our motorcade speeds through the darkened city streets. She sits utterly still, clutching the potted rosebush to her chest like a shield, her eyes vacant and red-rimmed. The blanket Leonid provided slips from her shoulders, but she doesn't seem to notice, focused entirely on some internal landscape of grief I can't access.
This isn't how I wanted to bring her into my world. Not with her roommate's blood still drying on her clothes, nor with the haunted look of someone whose life has been shattered beyond recognition. I wanted to convince her and to earn her trust gradually. Instead, violence has forced her hand, exactly as I feared it would.
"We'll be there in twenty minutes," I say, breaking the heavy silence. "Is there anything you need immediately?"
She doesn't respond, doesn't even blink. The shock has rendered her almost catatonic. I recognize the symptoms from men I've seen after particularly brutal firefights, the thousand-yard stare, the shallow breathing, and the complete dissociation from present reality.
I don't push further. There's nothing I can say that will ease what she's experienced tonight. Instead, I send a text message to Mrs. Petrova, alerting her to prepare for our arrival and emphasizing the need for gentle handling. If anyone can provide the maternal comfort Wil needs right now, it's the woman who practically raised me after my own mother's death.
The city lights fade as we enter the more exclusive suburbs, properties growing larger and farther apart until we reach the affluent enclave where the Vorobev estate has stood for three generations. The motorcade slows as we approach the first security checkpoint, an unassuming guardhouse that belies the sophisticated surveillance systems monitoring every approach.
Armed men in tactical gear step forward, checking beneath each vehicle with mirror poles despite knowing exactly who travels inside. The lead guard nods respectfully when he sees me, but maintains protocol, scanning retinas and checking identification before allowing us to proceed. I've created these layers of security precisely to prevent the kind of attack that occurred tonight, and the irony that Wil is now trapped within my protective measures after rejecting them isn't lost on me.
Our convoy of black SUVs passes through the first checkpoint at the perimeter, then the second at the halfway point, and finally the third just before the main gates. At each stop, heavily armed men verify our identities with increasing levels of scrutiny. What has always represented necessary protection to me suddenly appears as an intimidating display of force when viewed through Wil's potential perspective.
The winding driveway opens onto a circular approach before the main entrance to my estate. Floodlights illuminate the stone facade, highlighting the imposing architecture with its gothic flourishes and fortress-like construction. I've always found the building's solidity reassuring. It’s a physical manifestation of the strength and permanence I've fought to establish for the Vorobev name. Tonight, however, I see it through new eyes, and it looks cold and forbidding, more prison than sanctuary.
Despite it being nearly three in the morning, staff await our arrival, standing at attention as the cars pull to a stop. Leonid opens my door first, as protocol demands, but I circle the vehicle quickly to assist Wil myself. When I open her door, she doesn't move immediately, as if the transition from car to house requires more energy than she currently possesses.
"We're here," I say gently, offering my hand.
She looks at it blankly before finally extending her own, allowing me to help her from the vehicle. Her fingers are ice-cold despite the warm spring night, and she withdraws from my touch the moment she's steady on her feet.
Mrs. Petrova steps forward from the assembled staff, her silver hair pulled back in its usual severe bun. Unlike the others, who maintain a professional distance, she approaches directly, her Russian-accented English warm with genuine concern.
"You're safe now, dear," she says, her experienced gaze taking in Wil's blood-stained clothing and shell-shocked expression. "Let's get you cleaned up and settled."
Wil allows herself to be guided toward the entrance, still clutching her plant but offering no resistance. I follow them into the grand foyer, seeing my home through my new perception. The marble floors gleam coldly under crystal chandeliers that cast prismatic patterns across priceless artwork. A massive staircase with ornate banisters sweeps upward, flanked by classical sculptures acquired by my grandfather during his European travels.
Everything is immaculate, polished to perfection, and utterly devoid of warmth or personality. I've spent millions creating an environment that projects power and unassailable taste, never once considering whether it feels like a home. There are no personal photographs and no comfortable spaces on the first floor designed for relaxation rather than impression. Even the flowers arranged in massive urns are chosen for visual impact rather than scent or sentiment.
Wil looks impossibly small amid all this grandeur with her simple nightclothes stained with blood, and her feet bare against the cold marble. When I step forward to guide her with a gentle hand at her elbow, she flinches away from my touch, the first real reaction she's shown since we left Brooklyn.
The rejection stings more than it should. This woman has just lost her closest friend, seen violence erupt in what should have been her safe space, and been forced to seek protection from a man she clearly fears. Her recoil from my touch is the most rational response possible under the circumstances. Still, the way she shrinks from me feels like failure.
"Mrs. Petrova will show you to your rooms," I say, maintaining a careful distance. "Everything you need should be there, but if anything is missing, just ask."
Mrs. Petrova takes charge with the quiet competence that has defined her service to my family for decades. "Come with me, Miss Lamb," she says gently, not attempting physical contact after witnessing Wil's reaction to mine. "We have a suite prepared in the east wing. It's private and quiet there."
As they move toward the grand staircase, I notice the slight tremor in Wil's legs, and the way she grips the banister with intensity to steady herself. The rosebush never leaves her grasp, cradled in her free arm like a child. That plant clearly means something significant to her. Perhaps it’s her only anchor to the life that was violently ripped away tonight.
"Leonid," I say once they've disappeared from view, dropping the controlled facade I've maintained since the Brooklyn apartment. "Find the best botanist in the city. I want them here tomorrow morning."
He nods without questioning the unusual request, already making a note in his phone. Such immediate compliance is why Leonid has survived so long in my service. He understands when to question and when to simply execute.
"And the girl's funeral arrangements?" he asks quietly.
"Find her family, if she has any. If there’s no family, handle it personally, though do get Wil’s input, but only if she seems up to it. Regardless of who plans it, we’re covering the full expenses. Make sure the official report shows no connection to us. It should be a random home invasion gone wrong." The lie tastes bitter, but necessary. The truth would only bring more danger and unwanted attention. "If she has family, make sure they're taken care of anonymously."
"And those responsible?" His tone remains professional, but I catch the underlying rage. He takes attacks on my interests personally, and an attack that resulted in death even more so.
"Find out who sent those men. I want every detail. Who ordered it, who funded it, and who executed it? Every. Single. Detail." My voice drops to a threatening whisper. "This wasn't just about getting to Wil. This was a message to me. Someone thinks they can take what's mine with impunity."
"The timing suggests Kazanov involvement," says Leonid. "They've been probing our territories for weeks. They’ve probably been following you as well. Making a trip to her place might have led them to investigate why you’d do so, or maybe, they just took a chance someone important to you was there."
"Perhaps, but this feels different. It seems more personal than strategic. The Kazanovs would have sent more men, who were better equipped. This felt...hasty. Reactive." I shake my head, frustrated by the lack of clear answers. "Cover all possibilities. I want information before I decide how to respond."
"Yes, sir." The grim set of his mouth mirrors my own fury.
I dismiss the remaining staff and head to my study, knowing sleep will be impossible tonight. The room is the one space in the house that truly feels like mine, the walls lined with books I've actually read, a desk that bears the scars of years of use rather than pristine decorator perfection, and the leather chair that still carries the faint scent of my father's cologne despite the years since his death.
The familiar surroundings do nothing to calm the rage simmering just beneath my controlled exterior. Someone targeted Wil to get to me. An innocent woman died because of her connection to my world. The very scenario I warned Wil about came to pass despite my precautions, despite the men I had watching her building.
I pour myself a glass of vodka, downing it in one burning swallow before refilling. The alcohol does nothing to dull the sharp edges of my fury or the uncomfortable weight of responsibility pressing down on me.
I spend the remainder of the night in my study, coordinating security enhancements and dispatching teams to investigate. Reports come in hourly. The crime scene is secured and sanitized of any evidence linking back to the Bratva, the Brooklyn police are baffled by what appears to be a random home invasion gone tragically wrong, and my men question contacts throughout the city for any whisper of who might have ordered the hit.
As dawn breaks, I issue orders to increase personnel around the perimeter, using trusted guards specifically assigned to Wil's protection, and carte blanch for her to make any modifications to her suite. Everything must be perfect, not just for security but for comfort. She's lost everything familiar, so the least I can do is ensure her new environment offers every possible consolation.
When morning shifts to afternoon and afternoon to evening with no appearance from Wil, I check with Mrs. Petrova. She reports the young woman has barely moved from the window seat in her suite, staring out at the gardens below with that same vacant expression. She's nibbled at food only when explicitly prompted and spoken only to ask about her rosebush, which now sits on a table near her bed, receiving more attention than she gives herself.
"She's in shock, Makari Nikolaievich," Mrs. Petrova says, using the paternal form of address she's called me since childhood. "The grief must take its course. Pushing will only make it worse."
"Has she slept at all?" I ask, understanding that trauma often manifests in insomnia.
"Fitfully. The doctor gave her something mild to help, but she fights it. Afraid of the dreams, I think." She frowns slightly. "She needs time, but also purpose. Grief without direction can consume a person."
Her words remind me of my own experience after my mother's murder. The consuming rage that might have destroyed me found channel in purpose in protecting Zina, strengthening our family's position, and ensuring such vulnerability never touched us again.
"Thank you for looking after her," I tell Mrs. Petrova, one of the few people who receives genuine gratitude from me rather than commanded service.
"It is what I do," she says simply. "Go rest yourself. You help no one by collapsing from exhaustion."
I follow her advice, stealing a few hours of sleep before returning to both business operations and my new project, the one I hope might eventually bring purpose to Wil's healing process. I meet with the botanist to get things started on that end before returning my attention to finding the men who did this.
For three days, this pattern continues. Wil exists in a half-present state, eating minimally, speaking rarely, and maintaining the distant gaze of someone who has retreated deeply inside herself. I visit her suite once daily, never staying long, and never pushing for conversation she clearly can't sustain. Instead, I simply sit nearby, sometimes sharing silent meals, sometimes watching as she tends to her rosebush with detached precision.
Throughout these days, I maintain my normal business operations from my home office, not willing to leave the estate while she remains so vulnerable. Between conference calls and strategy meetings, I oversee the project I hope might eventually bring a spark back to her eyes.
Based on Leonid's intelligence about her passion for gardening, a hobby inherited from her mother and maintained in her Brooklyn apartment, I've commissioned a large greenhouse on the eastern side of the property. The location offers a perfect blend of privacy and security, visible from her suite but isolated from the main house and staff quarters.
Money and influence make the impossible possible. Landscape architects work around the clock, transplanting mature flowering bushes, installing irrigation systems, and creating stone pathways among beds of colorful blooms. The best botanist in New York advises on optimal conditions for various species, paying special attention to roses similar to the one Wil guards so carefully.
I personally inspect each element, including the temperature regulation systems in the greenhouse, the variety of plants selected, and the comfortable seating areas positioned to capture perfect views of the gardens. Nothing receives my approval unless it meets the highest standards of both functionality and beauty. When one contractor suggests certain shortcuts to meet the accelerated timeline, I dismiss him on the spot, replacing him with someone who understands that perfection can’t be compromised.
It must be flawless.
The project takes shape with remarkable speed, transforming a previously unused section of the grounds into a private garden paradise. The Victorian-style glasshouse gleams in the sunlight, surrounded by carefully arranged plantings that appear to have existed for years rather than days.
On the morning of the fourth day, when the work is complete, I receive another piece of information from Leonid's investigation. Intelligence suggests the attack was ordered by someone within my own organization rather than an outside rival. The betrayal ignites fresh rage, but I compartmentalize it, focusing first on the wounded woman in my care before turning to vengeance.
I find Wil in her usual window seat, staring out at nothing in particular. She looks marginally better. She’s showered and dressed in clothes Mrs. Petrova must have helped her select, with her hair pulled back neatly, but the vital spark that first attracted me to her remains absent.
"There's something I'd like to show you," I say, keeping my distance by the doorway.
She turns slowly, her green eyes finally focusing on me. "What is it?"
The simple question feels like progress after days of near-silence. "It's easier to show than explain. Will you come with me?"
For a moment, I think she'll refuse. Then she rises with deliberate movements, like someone much older than her twenty-seven years. "All right."
I lead her through the mansion's eastern corridors, matching my pace to her slower steps. We exit through a side door I've rarely used before, emerging onto a stone path that winds through newly landscaped gardens. The morning sun casts everything in a gentle light, glinting off dew that still clings to unfamiliar blooms.
Wil follows silently, showing no reaction until we round a final curve, and the greenhouse comes into view. The structure is impressive even by my exacting standards. The gardens surrounding it overflow with color, carefully designed to appear natural rather than formally arranged.
She stops abruptly, her breath catching audibly. "What is this?"
"It's yours," I say simply. "I thought you might want a space to continue your gardening. Leonid mentioned it was important to you."
I unlock the greenhouse door, stepping back to allow her to enter first. Inside, state-of-the-art equipment sits discreetly among an astonishing variety of plants. A potting station occupies one corner, stocked with every tool and material a gardener might require. Along the far wall, empty spaces await her personal touches and her decisions about what else belongs here.
Wil moves slowly through the space, trailing her fingers over leaves and petals, her expression shifting subtly with each new discovery. The blank mask she's worn since the attack begins to crack, revealing glimpses of the woman beneath.
She pauses before a section of roses similar to her treasured plant, bending to inhale their scent. The simple, sensory action seems to center her in the present moment in a way nothing else has managed since the attack.
I remain near the entrance, giving her space to explore this gift without pressure. The sight of her moving with purpose for the first time in days feels like its own reward, regardless of whether she chooses to acknowledge the gesture.
When she finally turns back toward me, something has changed in her eyes. The vacancy has given way to a complicated mix of emotions. Grief is still dominant but now accompanied by confusion, wonder, and the faintest glimmer of appreciation. "Why did you do this?" Her voice is rusty from disuse but stronger than before.
I consider and discard several potential answers before settling on the simplest truth. "Because it mattered to you."
She touches a perfect rose bloom, her fingers gentle against the velvet petals. For a long moment, she says nothing, and I prepare myself for rejection, for her to dismiss this gesture as an empty attempt to buy her forgiveness or cooperation.
Instead, she continues her exploration, moving toward the rear of the greenhouse, where glass doors open onto the garden beyond. I follow at a respectful distance, watching as she discovers the stone pathways winding between carefully selected plantings, the small pond with water lilies just beginning to open, and the comfortable bench positioned beneath a flowering cherry tree.
"This would have taken weeks to create," she says finally, turning back to face me, appearing faintly confused, or maybe just suspicious.
"Normally, yes, but money and motivation can compress timelines considerably."
She nods slowly, processing this evidence of the power and resources at my disposal. A reminder, perhaps, of why she feared me in the first place. "Thank you," she says quietly, the words clearly difficult for her. "It's beautiful."
This simple acknowledgment feels more significant than any effusive gratitude from another person might. From Wil, in her current state, these two words represent a monumental concession.
"You can come here whenever you wish. Day or night. I've arranged for this area to remain private. No security personnel will enter unless specifically called." I don’t tell her every inch of the route from the house to the greenhouse is under constant visual and audio surveillance, and there are cameras in the greenhouse as well.
It’s not to invade her privacy but to ensure her protection. There’s also a panic button on the panel that monitors the temperature and light, but since it’s very obviously labeled, I don’t mention it now. There’s no reason to remind her of all the reasons she has to not want me in her or the babies’ lives.
The sun shifts streams through the glass, warming us both as we stand in silence. For the first time since that terrible night, she doesn't step away when I move to stand beside her. Instead, she remains still, her gaze fixed on the garden before us, her expression thoughtful rather than vacant.
It's not forgiveness. It's not even acceptance of her new circumstances, but as we watch sunlight dance across the blooms created just for her, I allow myself to hope it might be the beginning of something close to peace between us.
The smallest victory, perhaps, but right now, it feels like enough.