Chapter 2
AMALIE
“Sit tight.”
Roman disappears into his office like he owns not just the room, but the air in it.
Of course he does.
I’m perched on the edge of a leather bench in the hallway, clutching my tote like it’s the only thing tethering me to reality.
Full background check.
My stomach hasn’t unclenched since he said those words.
Now that I’m alone, my brain does what it does best.
Catastrophize.
There’s nothing on me they can find. I’m clean. Boring, even.
But Kyle…
A man like Roman doesn’t use some cheap online search.
No.
He has people.
The kind who dig.
The kind who don’t stop.
The kind who find things that are supposed to stay buried.
Like the fact that my brother is a cop working deep undercover.
My heart slams into my throat.
If Kyle gets exposed because of me, I will never forgive myself.
I hear his voice in my head, calm and steady like always.
“It’s buried in IRS payroll. Internal documentation. No one is going to find it unless they’re looking for it.”
And Roman Barinov?
He looks like a man who always knows exactly where to look.
I picture him in his office, speaking rapid-fire Russian into his phone, directing someone halfway across the world to pull threads that unravel lives.
Mine included.
I suck in a breath. Hold it.
Release.
The marble floor blurs slightly beneath my feet.
My phone buzzes inside my bag.
I pull it out.
Max.
Just seeing his name makes something in my chest drop.
Come on, you can’t seriously be this pissed off?
I huff out a quiet laugh.
Oh, I was that pissed off.
The kind that ends things permanently.
The kind that burns bridges and salts the earth after.
I shove the phone back into my bag.
Max is the past.
Hospital bills are the present.
And this house?
This house feels like the future I didn’t plan for.
“Amalie.”
I nearly jump out of my skin.
Roman is just there.
Silent. Massive. Dangerous.
Like he materialized out of thin air.
I smooth my skirt, trying to look composed.
Failing.
“Yes?”
His green eyes drop to my fidgeting hands, then lift slowly back to my face, making my pulse stutter in a way that feels entirely unprofessional. "Come. You will meet my son now."
I cock my head to the side, buying a second to get my heartbeat under control. "You did the check already?"
He nods once. "The important parts, at least. You passed." His gaze holds mine a beat too long.
“Surprised?”
There is something about the way he says it, low and controlled, that sends a quiet shiver down my spine, but I lift my chin slightly, refusing to let it show.
“I’m surprised you did it that fast,” I reply, keeping my tone light. “I was expecting at least an hour, not ten minutes.”
A soft sound leaves him, something close to a snort, and it should not be attractive, but somehow it is.
“I have connections,” he says simply. “People who understand urgency.”
Of course he does.
“Now come. Sasha will want to meet you.”
There is a subtle shift in his tone when he says his son’s name, something quieter, softer, and it is enough to make me pause for a split second before nodding.
“Okay.”
He turns, and I follow him down the hallway, up a wide staircase, and into another wing of the house that feels different the moment we step into it, warmer somehow, less like a fortress and more like a home.
Framed photos line the walls, and one in particular catches my attention, a younger Roman standing beside a stunning blonde woman with sharp, elegant features that look like they belong on a runway.
I wonder if she is his ex-wife, but I keep the thought to myself.
Some questions feel dangerous.
Further down the hall, another set of frames draws my eye, this time filled with pictures of a little boy with dark curls and gray eyes that mirror Roman’s, and I know immediately that this must be Sasha.
There are baby photos, toddler pictures, and one larger image of Roman holding the boy, his expression softer than I would have thought possible, like the hard edges of him have been smoothed down just for that moment.
Roman slows when he notices I am no longer directly behind him.
“That is Sasha,” he says, following my gaze. “The woman is his mother. Elena.”
He offers nothing more than that, and something about the finality in his tone tells me not to ask.
We stop in front of a door painted a soft sky blue, and after a single, quiet knock, he opens it and steps aside, gesturing for me to enter first.
“After you.”
I step inside and immediately forget how to breathe.
The room itself is beautiful, perfectly suited for a child, with shelves full of books and toys scattered across a plush rug, but it is the walls that stop me cold.
They are covered, every inch of them, with drawings.
Crayon, pencil, paint.
At the bottom, the artwork is simple, the kind you would expect from a young child, but as my gaze lifts higher, the detail sharpens, the lines becoming more confident, more deliberate.
A cityscape stretches across one wall, unmistakably Chicago, with dark storm clouds looming overhead, and I feel a flicker of disbelief because there is no way a five-year-old should be capable of something like that.
“Sasha?” I call gently, stepping further into the room. “You here, buddy?”
Roman remains behind me, silent and watchful.
“As I said, he is shy. Sashka, come out.”
His tone softens just slightly, and a small head peeks out from behind a table, big gray eyes studying me cautiously as a marker is clutched tightly in his hand.
He is adorable.
And unmistakably Roman’s.
I crouch down slowly, offering him a warm smile.
“Hi,” I say softly. “You must be Sasha.”
He does not respond, but he does not hide either, and I take that as a win.
I straighten and step back a little, giving him space.
“I’m Amalie,” I continue. “This is amazing.”
I gesture toward the cityscape.
“Did you draw this?”
He nods, barely.
My smile widens.
“This is really good. I love how the buildings lean. It feels like the wind is pushing them.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I can feel Roman watching, assessing every word, every reaction.
Sasha studies me for a long moment before speaking, his voice so quiet I almost miss it.
“They’re leaning away.”
My chest tightens.
“Away from what?”
He moves closer to the drawing and points.
“The storm. They’re scared.”
Something twists in my chest at the quiet certainty in his voice.
“They want to run,” he adds, “but they can’t.”
God.
I glance at another drawing, a larger figure beside a smaller one.
“I like this one too,” I say. “The hands are really detailed.”
“That’s Papa,” he says, touching the larger figure before pointing to the smaller one. “That’s me. Mama is gone.”
The words land softly but hit hard.
“You did a beautiful job,” I tell him, keeping my voice gentle. “You’re really talented.”
A faint flush rises to his cheeks.
“Everyone says that.”
I grin.
“Well, everyone is right. I’m an artist too, so I get extra votes.”
His eyes brighten immediately.
“You are?”
“Mm-hm. I draw, I paint, and I make very impressive messes when I do it.”
A small smile tugs at his lips, and I count that as progress.
Behind me, Roman clears his throat.
“You have said more to her in five minutes than to anyone else in weeks.”
Sasha’s shoulders tense slightly, and I glance back at Roman.
“It’s easier when you talk about what they love,” I say.
Our eyes meet, and something shifts, something charged and impossible to ignore.
“He has an eye for it,” Roman says. “But art is not my expertise.”
“You’re encouraging it,” I reply, gesturing toward the walls. “That’s what matters.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“That was his mother’s idea.”
The room falls quiet.
“She was right,” I say softly.
A knock breaks the moment, and another man steps inside, blonde and sharp-featured, carrying a slim black folder.
“You must be Andrei,” I say.
He tilts his head slightly.
“I am.”
“I recognized you from Sasha’s drawing.”
Roman nods once.
“It will be framed.”
Andrei hands him the folder.
“Full background check.”
My stomach twists.
Roman flips through the pages, calm and methodical, his expression unreadable as he scans each line.
“You’re clear,” he says finally.
The relief that rushes out of me is immediate and impossible to hide.
His gaze sharpens.
“That is a very large sigh.”
I force a small laugh.
“Background checks make me nervous.”
He studies me carefully.
“Is there something I should know?”
My mouth dries instantly.
Kyle.
Secrets.
Risk.
“No,” I say, steadying my voice. “There isn’t.”
He holds my gaze for a long moment before nodding.
“Good.”
I exhale again, slower this time.
“You start tomorrow.”
Relief floods through me.
“Okay. I can do mornings or—”
“Tonight.”
I blink.
“Tonight?”
“You will move in.”
My brain struggles to catch up.
“The agency didn’t mention that.”
“It is required.”
Of course it is.
“I have an apartment. A lease. My things—”
“We will handle it.”
Simple.
Final.
Controlled.
“Where would I sleep?” I ask.
His eyes darken slightly.
“Across the hall from mine.”
Heat creeps up my neck.
“So you can keep an eye on Sasha?”
His gaze flicks briefly to my mouth.
“On the entire floor.”
Right.
“I’ve noticed you like control,” I say.
The corner of his mouth lifts faintly.
“I prefer order.”
“I’ll try not to disrupt it.”
“See that you don’t.”
My pulse jumps.
“Don’t worry, Miss Denning,” he says quietly. “I don’t bite.”
My breath catches.
“Good,” I reply lightly. “I’d hate to find out the hard way.”
His voice drops just enough to make it dangerous.
“Would you?”
That does something to me I do not want to examine.
“Sasha,” he says without looking away from me, “say goodbye.”
“Bye,” Sasha murmurs.
“Bye, buddy,” I say. “Save me a spot on the wall.”
He nods.
Roman turns toward the door.
“Did you drive here?”
“No. Bus.”
Disapproval flashes across his face.
“That will not happen again.”
Of course not.
“I will have someone take you home. Pack what you need. You return tonight.”
Just like that.
Decision made.
Life changed.
He walks away without another word, leaving behind a wake of tension and something far more dangerous.
And as I stand there, heart racing and mind spinning, one thing becomes painfully clear.
I just stepped into something that is going to change everything.