Chapter Seven - Felix
The drive to the estate takes thirty-two minutes through increasingly rural roads that empty of traffic until we’re the only headlights cutting through the darkness.
Diana sits in the backseat beside me, pressed against the opposite door as far as the space allows, her arms wrapped tight around herself. She hasn’t spoken since we left the scene, but her breathing is audible.
I don’t attempt conversation. Explanations can wait until we’re somewhere secure, somewhere the variables are contained and I can assess exactly how much damage Sartore’s failed abduction caused.
Oleg drives with his usual precision, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror every few seconds to check our tail.
The second SUV follows close behind, carrying the two men we pulled from the van. They’ll be interrogated separately, though I already know what they’ll say. Lorenzo authorized the grab. Standard containment protocol for a liability that threatened both organizations.
What I don’t know is whether Lorenzo coordinated with Pavel, or if this was a unilateral move designed to force my hand.
The estate gates come into view—twelve feet of reinforced steel set into stone pillars, biometric scanner glowing faintly in the darkness. Oleg presses his thumb to the reader and the gates swing open smoothly, closing behind us with a solid mechanical thunk.
Diana stiffens beside me, her gaze tracking the perimeter fence that stretches in both directions, topped with security cameras angled to cover every approach. The driveway curves through manicured grounds, motion-sensor lights activating as we pass, illuminating the main house.
It’s not ostentatious—I don’t believe in displays that draw attention—but it’s substantial. Three stories of pale stone and dark windows, clean architectural lines that suggest permanence rather than luxury.
Armed guards rotate positions near the entrance, visible enough to be a deterrent but professional enough not to look like a militia.
The SUV stops beneath the covered portico. Oleg exits first, circling to open Diana’s door before I can. She doesn’t move immediately, staring at the house with an expression I can’t fully read. Fear, definitely. Beneath it, something sharper—calculation, maybe, or the beginnings of fury.
“Out,” I say, keeping my tone neutral.
She slides from the vehicle slowly, her legs unsteady enough that she braces one hand against the doorframe. I move around to her side, close enough to catch her if she falls, but she pulls herself upright through sheer will and steps away from my proximity.
The main door opens as we approach. Another guard—Taras, who’s been with the family for fifteen years—nods once and steps aside.
I guide Diana through the entrance with a hand at her lower back, feeling the tension radiating through her body despite the layers of clothing between my palm and her skin.
The entryway is warm after the cold night air, lit by recessed lighting that casts everything in muted gold.
Marble floors, minimal furniture, a staircase curving up to the second level.
The central control room sits behind a locked door to the left, camera feeds routing every angle of the property through encrypted servers.
Diana stops in the middle of the space and turns to face me, her dark eyes blazing with an anger that’s finally overtaken the fear.
“What the hell is this?” Her voice shakes slightly, but the words come out sharp and clear. “You kidnapped me.”
Technically accurate. I removed her from one vehicle and placed her in another without consent, then transported her to a private location against her will. The legal definition is unambiguous.
“I extracted you from a situation that would have ended badly,” I say instead.
“By forcing me into your car and bringing me to—” She gestures around the entryway, her movements jerky with adrenaline. “—wherever this is. Shit, Felix.”
The use of my first name lands with unexpected intimacy. She’s been researching me thoroughly enough to know more than just my firm’s name. It means she understands who she’s dealing with, even if she doesn’t fully grasp the implications.
“You can call it whatever makes you feel better,” I tell her. “You’re alive, which is more than those men intended.”
Her jaw tightens. “The men in the van. Who sent them?”
“Lorenzo Sartore. Head of the Sartore Syndicate.” I watch her process the name, seeing the moment recognition flickers across her expression.
She’s seen it in Ethan’s files—the parallel organization running adjacent operations, competing for the same political territory.
“He considers you a liability. Your brother’s investigation threatened his operations before it was contained.
Now you’re picking up where Ethan left off. ”
“So you swooped in to rescue me?” The skepticism in her tone is cutting. “How convenient that you showed up exactly when I needed saving. Almost like you orchestrated the whole thing.”
The accusation doesn’t surprise me. It’s the logical conclusion from her perspective—stage the threat, play the hero, gain control through manufactured crisis.
I could correct her, explain that I’ve been monitoring her movements to prevent exactly this scenario, that Sartore moved without coordination and I had to intercept before they relocated her somewhere I couldn’t reach.
Ambiguity serves me better. Let her believe I’m capable of that level of manipulation. It keeps her off-balance, aware that she can’t predict my moves or trust my motivations.
“Believe what you want,” I say. “The outcome is the same. You’re here instead of wherever Sartore planned to take you.”
She takes a step back, scanning the room with renewed urgency. Her gaze lands on the door we entered through, then shifts to the windows; reinforced glass, I know, though she wouldn’t notice the difference visually as she calculates escape routes, assesses options.
“I want to leave.”
“That’s not possible.”
“You can’t keep me here.” Her voice rises slightly, control slipping. “I have a job, an apartment, people who will notice if I disappear.”
“Your office believes you’re taking emergency personal leave. Your landlord has been notified you’ll be away for several weeks. The people who matter have been contacted.”
The color drains from her face as the implications settle. I handled the logistics while she was unconscious in the SUV, a few carefully worded emails and phone calls from numbers that won’t trace back to me. It’s impossible to reverse without drawing exactly the kind of attention she can’t afford.
“You had no right—”
She moves suddenly, pushing past me toward the door with enough force that I have to shift my stance. I block her path instinctively, my body between her and the exit.
“Move,” she demands, her hands coming up to shove against my chest.
The contact is hard, genuine resistance rather than theatrical protest. I catch both her wrists before she can strike again, pivoting to pin them against the wall beside the entry corridor. The motion is controlled but firm, my grip tight enough to restrain without bruising.
She’s trapped between my body and the wall, breath coming fast and angry, dark eyes locked on mine with fury that makes my pulse spike.
The proximity is electric—her chest rising and falling against mine, the heat of her skin beneath my hands, the faint scent of fear and adrenaline mixing with something distinctly her.
“Let go of me.” The words are steady despite the tremor I feel in her wrists.
I should. This level of contact crosses lines I set deliberately to maintain control. But the feel of her struggling against my hold, the way her pulse hammers visibly at the base of her throat, the defiance radiating from every inch of her body—it shifts something primal inside me.
“You’re not leaving,” I tell her quietly, leaning close enough that my breath brushes her temple. “Accept that now and this becomes easier.”
“Easier for who?” She tries to wrench free, the movement futile but determined. “You break into my apartment, watch me sleep, drag me to some… some compound in the middle of nowhere, and expect me to just accept it?”
The mention of her apartment makes me pause. I release her wrists slowly, stepping back just enough to give her space while still blocking the exit.
“You saw the footage,” I say, and it’s not a question.
Her expression confirms it—jaw tight, eyes bright with anger and violation. She checked the camera feed before the attack. Saw me sitting beside her bed in the early morning hours, watching her sleep with an attention that crossed every boundary between surveillance and obsession.
“You were in my bedroom.” Her voice drops lower, shaking with suppressed emotion. “You sat there and watched me while I was unconscious. What kind of person does that?”
“Someone making sure you stayed alive,” I tell her. “Sartore’s people were watching your building. I needed to confirm your security measures were inadequate before they made their move.”
It’s partially true—I was assessing vulnerabilities, cataloging entry points, measuring response times. The rest of it, the twenty minutes spent studying the curve of her body beneath thin sheets, memorizing the way her breathing changed in sleep, was purely selfish.
She sees through the justification. “You’re lying.”
“Believe what you want.” I cross my arms, settling into the same controlled posture I use in negotiations where emotional leverage matters more than facts.
“Understand this: from this moment forward, you stay here. You don’t leave the estate grounds without my approval.
You don’t contact anyone outside without clearance.
Your movements are monitored, your communications tracked, your access restricted. ”
“So I’m your prisoner?”
“You’re under my protection.” I hold her gaze, letting the steel show.
“Sartore wants you dead. He tried once tonight and failed. He’ll try again unless you’re somewhere he can’t reach.
This estate is secured beyond anything you’ve experienced: armed guards, biometric access, camera coverage that leaves zero blind spots. You’re safer here than anywhere else.”
“Safe from everyone except you.”
The observation is accurate and uncomfortably perceptive. She’s the greatest threat to my operations, the civilian who could expose everything with a single well-placed disclosure. Keeping her here contains that risk while creating an entirely new set of complications I’m still measuring.
“I’m not the one who put a gun to your ribs tonight,” I remind her.
“No, you’re just the one who’s been stalking me for days, breaking into my home, manipulating my life.” She pushes away from the wall, creating distance between us even though there’s nowhere to go. “How is that better?”
It’s not. By any objective measure, what I’ve done is worse. Sartore’s men were following orders. I’ve been operating on obsession disguised as operational necessity.
“It’s better because you’re alive,” I say simply. “Whether you frame this as imprisonment or protection doesn’t change the outcome. You stay here until the threat is neutralized.”
“Then what?”
The question hangs between us, weighted with implications I’m not ready to examine. The rational answer is yes—once Sartore is handled, once the files are secured or discredited, once she’s no longer an operational liability, there’s no strategic reason to keep her.
The thought of her leaving, of returning to her Brooklyn apartment and her transparency audits and her life that doesn’t include me, creates a resistance I can’t rationalize away.
“Then we reassess,” I tell her, which is the closest I can come to honesty.
She studies me for a long moment, her expression shifting through emotions I can’t fully track. Fear is still there, layered beneath anger and exhaustion and something that might be resignation.
“I don’t have a choice, do I?” she asks finally.
“You always have choices, but the alternative to staying here is hoping you survive long enough for your choices to even matter.”
She looks away, her shoulders sagging slightly as the adrenaline from the attack finally crashes into exhaustion.
I notice details I cataloged earlier but didn’t prioritize—the torn sleeve of her blouse, the bruise forming on her upper arm where one of Sartore’s men grabbed her, the way her hands are still trembling despite her attempt at composure.
“Taras will show you to your room,” I say, gesturing toward the guard still waiting by the door.
“There’s clothing in the closet, bathroom attached.
You’re not locked in, but the exterior doors require biometric clearance you don’t have.
If you need anything, there’s a phone on the nightstand that connects directly to central control. ”
I don’t wait for her response. I climb the stairs to the second level and head toward my office, aware that she’s watching me go with an expression I don’t turn back to see.