Chapter 18
ASTRID
The FBI raid leaves behind silence, heavy and electric. Like a bomb went off and everyone’s still waiting to hear if a second one’s coming. A few agents still poke around here and there, talking into radios, rifling through drawers that no longer matter.
I’m standing just outside my office, somewhere between frozen and floating. My body’s here, but the rest of me is still in Yuri’s office, sliding those USB drives into my pocket like I didn’t just cross some invisible line.
A hand, heavy and warm, settles on my shoulder.
I turn, startled, and look up into the face of a man I’ve never seen before.
He’s tall. Broad. Built like he could tear a car door off its hinges without breaking a sweat.
The open collar of his shirt reveals a strong neck and more than a hint of muscle.
His dark hair is mussed just enough to suggest menace, and his eyes—green, piercing—give off the kind of intensity that makes people step aside without thinking.
“I need you to come with me,” he says. His voice is deep and smooth, urgent.
I blink. “Who are you?”
“I’m with the Ivanovs,” he says simply. “Yuri asked me to look after you.”
I hesitate, heart beating a little faster. Something in his expression makes it hard to say no. It’s not just authority. It’s loyalty.
And God help me, I trust it.
“Okay,” I say.
He nods once, then guides me with a hand at the small of my back, firm but not pushy. We weave through the tension-filled office, past spilled coffee cups and half-packed briefcases. Everyone watches us, but no one says a word.
In the garage downstairs, a black G Wagon awaits. The man opens the passenger door for me, his big frame blocking half the light. For someone who looks like he eats rebar for breakfast, his hand on my back is surprisingly gentle.
“Thanks,” I murmur.
He waits until I’m buckled in before rounding the hood and sliding into the driver’s seat. The engine growls to life, and we pull out into the soft gray morning.
“I’m Grigori,” he says after a minute. “I’m Elena’s husband.”
“I haven’t met Elena yet.”
“You will,” he says with a faint smile. “Be ready. She’s a firecracker.” He sounds proud. Fiercely so. The kind of pride that blooms from admiration.
We ride in silence for a while, the city unspooling outside the windows in slow motion. I rest a hand over my pocket. The USB drives press lightly against the fabric.
“Will the guys be okay?” I ask, glancing at him.
Grigori’s hands stay loose on the wheel, but his jaw tightens. “They’ll be fine. The family lawyers are already on it. They’ve danced this dance before.”
“Where are we going?”
“The family mansion. Just outside the city.”
My stomach twists inside me. I’ve stepped into something big. And possibly dangerous. And I don’t know if I’m ready.
Twenty minutes later we’re there.
The gates alone are intimidating—tall, wrought iron, with a subtle Ivanov crest etched in the center like something out of a crime family fairy tale. Beyond them stretches a winding, tree-lined driveway that leads to what can only be described as a palace in disguise.
The mansion is sprawling and stately, with Tudor-style stonework and ivy-draped walls.
Sloping gables, leaded windows, and three towering floors that seem to stretch toward the sky.
It’s massive—easily tens of thousands of square feet—yet nothing about it feels ostentatious. It’s old money, quiet and powerful.
I lean closer to the window, wide-eyed. “Wow.”
Grigori notices. “Built in the thirties. Original oak floors. Gardens out back. Pool too, though it’s mostly the kids who use it these days.” He glances at me. “We’ve got a full-time chef, a round-the-clock security team, and—don’t panic—yes, those are guards at every corner of the grounds.”
I spot them after he mentions it. They’re posted along the perimeter, standing beside trees, two at the front door, one at each end of the house.
“So this is normal?” I murmur.
Grigori laughs quietly. “Normal enough. For us anyway.”
The car glides to a stop at the arched entryway.
Before I can fully process the architecture, the front doors open and a woman steps out.
She’s stunning—dark hair, porcelain skin, and with the kind of face you expect to see on the cover of a magazine.
She’s dressed in a sleek, black, knit dress and boots.
“Grigori,” she says, her voice tender as she reaches for him.
He bends to kiss her, murmuring something soft in Russian before pulling away with a lingering glance in my direction.
“Elena, this is Astrid,” he says. “I’m going to check on the kids. Be nice.”
Elena smirks. “Why do people always assume I’m the scary one?”
“Because you are,” he calls over his shoulder as he disappears into the mansion.
She sighs theatrically, then offers me a small, wry smile. “Ignore him. I’m delightful.”
I manage a tentative smile in return. “I believe you.”
“Come. Miserable day out. Looks like a storm any second.” She gestures forward, and I follow her into the mansion, promptly forgetting how to breathe.
The interior is a dream. Vaulted ceilings, coffered beams, gleaming floors, Persian rugs so soft they make you want to lay down on them and take a nap. The entryway alone is the size of my apartment, and the staircase looks like something out of an opera house.
“Is it just you and Grigori here?”
“Well, no. There are others, and Sergei’s with the nanny,” Elena says casually, as we move through a grand hallway framed with modern art and oil portraits. “They’re down in the playroom. He’s eight months and very demanding.”
“Sergei?”
“My son,” she says with a flicker of pride. “He already has Grigori wrapped around his tiny fingers.”
I smile at the thought.
“I’ve heard about you. I’m usually buried in the IT dungeon in the basement—network security, internal encryption, digital asset surveillance—that sort of thing. It’s not glamorous, but it’s very necessary.”
“I didn’t know Ivanov Holdings had in-house cybersecurity,” I say.
“We’re not just Bratva, sweetheart,” she replies with a wink. “We’re organized crime.”
I laugh before I can stop myself.
“Lucky for me, I was working from home today,” she adds. “Otherwise I’d be in federal custody with the rest of those stubborn bastards.”
My expression falters. “Have you heard anything about them?”
“Not yet,” Elena says. “But our lawyers are circling. They’ll have them out before dinner, mark my words.”
I exhale sharply, the smallest bit of tension leaving my chest.
Elena stops at a set of double doors, turning back to me. “Come on,” she says, smiling like she knows exactly how unnerved I feel. “Let’s introduce you to the other wives.”
My heart skips a beat. Wives. Plural. Suddenly, I’m fifteen again, walking into a cafeteria full of girls who already know each other’s secrets.
I nod slowly. “Okay.” Inside, I’m bracing myself.
Elena leads me into a grand den that looks like it belongs in a period drama.
A massive stone fireplace dominates one wall, its mantle carved with twisting vines and wild roses.
Above it hangs a dark, moody oil painting of what could be an Ivanov ancestor—or maybe just someone scary enough to pass for one.
The ceilings soar and the towering bookshelves are filled with books—leather-bound volumes, gilded spines, thick tomes.
A wide window stretches nearly floor to ceiling, arched at the top like a cathedral.
Just beyond it, the garden stirs under a gentle rain, the first drops beginning to hit the glass.
I don’t have time to soak in the view because the women are here.
The first one I notice is stunning and curvy, with glowing olive skin and a presence that says “don’t mess with me” even though she’s smiling. Her long hair is swept to one side, and she’s wearing heels so lethal-looking I’m convinced they could double as weapons.
“You must be Astrid,” she says warmly, rising to greet me. “I’m Dalia. Married to Lev.”
“And I’m Maura,” says the redhead beside her, her voice soft and elegant. She’s beautiful in a quiet way—cool porcelain skin and wide gray-green eyes. “I’m Luk’s wife.”
Next is Isabella. Effortlessly gorgeous, with soft brown waves and the kind of charm that makes you want to tell her everything.
“Alexei’s wife,” she says with a graceful nod.
A wine bottle is making its way around the group, and Isabella refills her glass with a practiced flick of her wrist.
“Sparkling water for me, thanks,” I say quickly when Maura offers.
Her green eyes meet mine, a flicker of curiosity then amusement in them. Then a sly little smile.
Oh.
Oh no.
She knows. Or at least suspects. The truth I’ve managed to keep tightly sealed feels fragile and exposed, like it’s pressing against my skin, begging to be let out.
The rain drums louder against the windowpanes. Isabella gestures to the plush sectional near the fireplace.
“Come sit,” she offers, her tone warm. “Relax.”
I try to smile, pretend I’m fine. But how does anyone relax when the room is this beautiful, the women this sharp, and your entire life is shifting under your feet?
I lower myself onto the couch and wonder how much longer I can keep this secret.