Chapter 27
Luciano
Moscow.
They brought us to fucking Moscow. The heart of Mother Russia herself.
Fuck.
I’m going to catch hell for this. I can already hear my father now—his voice thundering across the ocean—berating me for getting on a plane headed straight into enemy territory. But what was I supposed to do? Let Frankie and Stella come here alone?
Yeah, that wasn’t happening.
After a brutal twenty-hour flight deep into Bratva territory, we’re met with another two-hour car ride, this time into what looks like the Russian countryside—dense forests, snow-covered fields, winding roads that feel like they lead to nowhere. Remote. Isolated. The kind of place you disappear into.
The kind of place the Pakhan must call home.
Frankie’s head is resting against my shoulder, too exhausted to keep her eyes open. Stella’s still out cold, her head cradled in Kirill’s lap as he runs his fingers through her hair like he’s done it a thousand times before. Like she’s his.
“You know when my sister wakes up, she’s probably going to kill you for kidnapping her, right?” I say, locking eyes with the bastard across from me.
“I’m well aware,” Kirill replies with that smug smirk of his—like he knows something I don’t.
“That is if my father doesn’t kill you first. He’s not going to be thrilled you kidnapped two of his kids either.”
“I didn’t kidnap anyone. You came because you wanted to,” Kirill retorts stoically.
“Technically,” Kostya mutters from beside him, throwing a sideways glance at Stella, “you did kidnap Red.”
Kirill shoots his brother a sharp look. That’s all it takes for Kostya to shut up and turn his attention back to the window, a flash of guilt—or maybe fear—in his eyes.
I lean forward and ask, “Will you at least tell me where the hell you’re taking us?”
“All in good time, my Sicilian friend. All in good time.”
“I’m not your friend, asshole.”
“Today you are,” Kirill deadpans, flicking a glance toward Frankie.
One that I catch and it unsettles me.
“What do you want with her?” I ask, voice low. “And why the hell did you call her Kira?”
“Because that’s her name.”
“It’s not.” My voice tightens. “You’ve got her confused with someone else.”
Kirill’s gaze softens just a touch as he looks at her again. “There’s no confusion. I guarantee you that.”
My spine goes ramrod straight. “My father knows you have us,” I say in warning, thankful I was able to text him before Kostya took all our phones away.
“I’m counting on it,” he retorts casually. “I left him a greeting card, after all. By now, he’s probably pulled Lev apart for answers.”
My jaw clenches. He’s right. The guy I shot in the leg stayed behind at the airstrip. By now, Marcello’s probably wrung him dry. Serves him right. That whole kidnapping attempt—running Stella off the road—could’ve ended way worse. She got shot because of it. She could’ve been killed.
So could Frankie.
Fuck.
I’m the one who should’ve taken Frankie back to the orphanage.
Maybe then Stella wouldn’t have gotten herself hurt.
“We’re here,” Kirill says suddenly.
Iron gates rise before us, tall and black and flanked by massive stone columns, accompanied by heavy security systems and armed guards.
This isn’t just some fancy estate—it’s a goddamn fortress.
“Home sweet home,” Konstantin mutters without enthusiasm.
The gates open slowly, almost ominously, and the limo rolls forward along a long, curving driveway lined with massive evergreens and stone statues that watch us like sentinels. The estate itself rises in the distance—a sprawling, modernized fortress. Steel. Glass. Stone. It’s like a mansion and a military compound fucked and birthed this very expensive baby.
We drive another five minutes through manicured grounds, past fountains and towering hedges, until we stop in front of the main house—a structure that puts Uncle Sal’s entire home to shame. It’s opulent in a cold, calculated way. A home built for power, not comfort.
Konstantin gets out first. Kirill follows, careful as he carries Stella in his arms like she’s precious.
“Frankie, baby, you need to wake up now,” I whisper, kissing her temple and keeping my voice steady, trying to put on a brave face for her, even if I’m not feeling very heroic right now.
A hero would not have put the woman he loves and his beloved sister in such jeopardy.
She stirs with a soft yawn, long lashes fluttering as she blinks up at me. “Where are we?”
“Not sure yet,” I murmur, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “But whatever happens next, I’m not leaving your side. I’ll protect you.”
She gives me a small, sleepy smile before straightening up and stepping out of the car.
A blond man steps out of the mansion and heads straight toward us, but his eyes are locked solely on Frankie. He’s broad-shouldered and effortlessly imposing, his features unmistakably similar to Kirill’s and Kostya’s—clearly cut from the same cloth. Older than Kostya by at least a decade, with pale blond hair, ice-blue eyes, and a face like carved stone, he radiates authority without even trying, making him the one who is obviously in charge here.
“Chyort!” he mutters in Russian, staring at her like he’s seen a ghost.
“I know, right? Fucking uncanny,” Kostya grins from ear to ear.
Frankie shifts nervously under the attention, trying not to fidget.
“ Ty zdes’. Ty deystvitel’no zdes’. Ty vyglyadish’ toch’-v-toch’ kak ona, ” the man mutters, eyes wide.
“I’m…sorry. I… um… I don’t speak Russian,” Frankie replies, clearly thrown.
“Of course not,” he says, his gaze beaming brightly, only to harden when they shift to me. “And you must be Luciano Romano,” he says with an obvious snarl.
“And you are?”
“Aleksandr Petrov.”
The name means nothing to me, and from his angry expression, that pisses him off.
“He’s still in high school, Sasha. He’s not made yet,” Kostya calls over his shoulder as he heads inside. “Lighten the fuck up, dude. Anyway, I’m going to take a nap. Call me when dinner is ready.”
Aleksandr ignores him and turns to Kirill. “Dr. Sokolov is upstairs waiting. Go.”
Kirill nods and vanishes into the house with Stella in his arms.
“Come,” Aleksandr says to us. “I’ll show you to your rooms.”
Sensing we don’t have a choice in the matter, we follow him inside. Frankie grips my hand tight, and I squeeze it back. Inside, the mansion is even more surreal. The foyer is massive, crowned with chandeliers that sparkle like crushed diamonds. Original Picassos and Rembrandts hang on the walls—real ones, if I had to guess. Sculptures, marble columns, gold-accented trim – fuck, even the air smells expensive.
But Frankie doesn’t seem to pay any attention to her surroundings, her thoughts fixed on one thing and one thing only.
“Kirill said you have information about my parents,” she says, keeping her voice firm and steady. “I’m not going anywhere until someone tells me what the hell is going on.”
Aleksandr turns slowly. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just walks up to her and studies her like she’s an answer to a riddle he thought unsolvable.
“You’ve had a long trip. Rest. Clean up. Eat. Then we’ll talk.”
Her hands ball into fists, not satisfied with his deflection, and frankly, neither am I.
Aleksandr notices her quiet rage and then, unexpectedly, reaches out and places a hand on her cheek.
“So much fire in you, little one. Just like her.”
“Like who?” she asks.
He drops his hand without answering and starts up the stairs.
When it becomes clear that we’re not getting anything else out of him, we follow him until we reach what looks to be a guest suite.
“You’ll stay here,” he says, glancing at Frankie. “The Romano boy can sleep at the end of the hall.”
“No,” she says instantly. “Lucky stays with me.”
“You heard her, Sasha, ” I add with a victorious smirk. “Where she goes, I go.”
Aleksandr nods, not arguing. “Very well.” He then opens the set of double doors and tells us someone will knock when dinner is ready. Then he leaves without another word.
I shut the door behind him and turn to Frankie.
“You okay?”
She lets out a humorless laugh. “What do you think?”
I walk over and pull her into my arms, and she doesn’t hesitate, just melts against me like it’s the only place she feels safe.
“I don’t want you to worry,” I whisper, brushing a strand of hair behind Frankie’s ear. “By now, my father knows where we are. He’ll do everything he can to bring us home safely.” She nods, her arms tightening around me like I’m the only thing anchoring her in this foreign place. “But he’s right, you know? You should rest.”
“I’m too wired,” she murmurs, then cranes her head to look up at me. “Do you really think they know who my parents are?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t.” My answer feels hollow, even to me.
Her face tightens with frustration, but I offer a small smile to distract her. “Come on, let’s get you out of these clothes.”
“Really, Lucky? Now?” She gives me a dry, skeptical look.
“I wasn’t thinking about sex, babe. Damn. Give me a little credit,” I say with a laugh. “I just figured a shower would help.”
“A shower does sound nice.” She smiles timidly.
“See? I’m good for more than just letting you have your way with me.” I wink.
She lets out a soft laugh, and for a moment, the tight grip of our situation loosens. I lead her into the bathroom and turn on the rainforest shower. While the steam builds, I undress her gently, then strip myself down and guide us both under the warm cascade of water.
I take my time washing away the stress of the past twenty-four hours from her skin. My body responds to her naked beside me—naturally—but I keep myself in check, shrugging when she catches the evidence of my arousal.
“Hey, don’t look at me like that. He’s got a mind of his own.” I point to my hard cock who looks angrily back at me that I don’t have his back.
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a soft smile on her lips that tells me she’s not mad.
Once we’re clean and wrapped in plush towels, I help her back into the bedroom. Just as I thought, the shower erased all the tension her body was holding and she’s half-asleep before her head even hits the pillow. I pull her close, holding her as tightly as she’s holding on to me.
“Thank you,” she whispers, on the edge of sleep.
“For what?”
“For being here. With me.”
“Where else would I be?” I kiss her temple. But as her breathing slows, my mind races.
Fuck.
Did I do this?
Did I lead them to her?
When I met Kirill at his strip club, he acted like he didn’t recognize the medallion I showed him.
But he must have.
If that’s true…
Fuck.
What do the Petrovs want with my Frankie?
And why the fuck do they all look at her like she’s the second coming?
“Lucky,” I hear her voice, soft and sweet, pressing a kiss to my lips.
My arms wrap around her instinctively, pulling her close.
“Mmm,” I hum. “Five more minutes.” I shift, my half-hard cock nestling in the curve of her ass. “Actually, make that an hour.”
She giggles softly, then swats my hand away when it wanders too far. “Now’s not the time. We were ordered to go downstairs.”
I groan, opening my eyes to the unfamiliar room.
Right.
Russia.
Fuck.
“You okay?” I ask, brushing her cheek, needing to always check in and see how she’s feeling with all of this.
“Honestly? I’m a little nervous.”
“I get that.” I lean in, my voice dropping. “But if this is just some sick game the Russians are playing, I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”
“I don’t think it’s a game. I honestly believe they know who I am.”
“ I know who you are,” I correct gently.
“You know what I mean,” she says, getting out of bed and pulling on her clothes.
I frown.
There’s a hope in her eyes I’m not sure I trust.
God, I hope these bastards actually know something about Frankie’s parentage. If this turns out to be some sick, twisted game, I’ll burn this whole damn house down.
Reluctantly I get up, get dressed, and follow her.
Downstairs, we find Kostya sprawled on the living room couch, flipping through channels like he couldn’t be more bored.
Konstantin Petrov is clearly the youngest of the Petrov clan. Though he shares Kirill’s jet-black hair, dark eyes, and a cocky smirk that screams he’s always two steps ahead of the chaos he causes, that’s where the resemblances with his brother end. He doesn’t have the same intimidating edge as his older brothers either—where they’re all stone-faced and menacing, he looks more like a college kid home for winter break. But I’m not buying it. There’s something dangerous under all that laid-back charm. I should know. Takes an asshole to know one.
“Hey, you’re up,” he grins, looking at Frankie like she’s a long-lost friend. “Are you hungry?”
“I could eat,” she says with a shy smile.
“Then come on.” He hops up over the couch and places a hand over Frankie’s shoulder, leading her out the room.
I’m about to rip his arm off its socket when Frankie lets out an excited squeal, running towards the kitchen. The estate’s kitchen is massive, like something out of a cooking show. Marble counters, polished steel appliances, and a full staff preparing what looks like a feast for a king. The aroma of fresh herbs and roasted meat hits instantly, making my stomach growl and reminding me that I refused to eat anything on the plane, afraid it could be poisoned.
“Score!” Kostya yells, grabbing a golden pastry off the counter. “You have to try this.”
Frankie bites into one and moans. “This is incredible. What is it?”
“That’s pirozhki. It’s like heaven wrapped in dough,” he grins, while handing her a second one. “But don’t spoil your appetite,” he adds. “Misha will flip if any of this goes to waste. He has a thing about food.”
“Wait—Misha? As in Mikhail Petrov?” I ask, suddenly feeling a cold chill sweep down my spine.
“Who’s Mikhail Petrov?” Frankie asks, licking the crumbs from her lip.
Before Kostya can answer, the room shifts as Aleksandr enters the room.
“He’s the Pakhan . The big boss of the Russian mafia,” I explain while keeping my gaze locked on Aleksandr.
“And our brother,” Aleksandr adds, pouring vodka into a glass like it’s water.
Frankie’s brow furrows as she takes that in. Just yesterday, none of this was her reality.
Now? She’s swimming in Bratva bloodlines.
“Will I meet him today?” she asks. “Is that who we’re waiting for?”
“She’s a bright one,” Kostya chuckles.
“Of course she is,” Aleksandr says, his eyes warm on Frankie. “She takes after her mother.”
“My mother?” she breathes. “Did you know her?
Aleksandr nods, but before he can elaborate, Kostya cuts in. “Did I know her? She practically changed my diapers!”
Aleksandr glares at him as if Kostya has said too much already.
“What?” Kostya mutters, deflated.
“Misha wants to tell her himself.”
“So? I didn’t say jack shit. But whatever. I’m out,” he mumbles, throwing the middle finger at his brother before leaving the room.
“Apologies. Konstantin has lived in America for too long. It’s made him forget his place.”
Neither Frankie nor I add anything to the remark. Clearly, not everything’s peaceful in the Petrov family.
“Come,” Aleksandr says. “Misha will arrive shortly.”
Frankie beams excitedly at me as she follows Aleksandr out the door, while I reluctantly follow her.
She might be excited to meet the Pakhan , but I know better.
Very few people have ever laid eyes on Mikhail ‘Misha’ Petrov—and that’s not by accident. They say he’s a ghost in his own kingdom. A ruler who never steps off his throne, but whose reach stretches into every shadow. A man like that doesn’t meet people—he summons them. And the idea of him summoning Frankie? Yeah, nothing about that sits right with me.
My troubling thoughts are cut short when Aleksandr guides us into the house’s sprawling library and I see sitting on one of the couches, casually thumbing through his phone, Kirill.
“Where’s my sister?” I snap at him, rushing towards him.
“Sleeping upstairs,” Kirill says flatly, not even bothering to look at me.
“I want to see her.”
“She’s currently being monitored by our family doctor,” Aleksandr chimes in for his brother. “I can guarantee you that she’s healing nicely. I can even take you to her when we’re done here. So, please…sit.”
I want to argue, but it’s clearly not a request. I take a seat, wishing I had one of Stella’s daggers on me. Frankie sits down next to me, placing a comforting hand on my thigh. It’s enough to simmer my rage at being kept away from my sister.
A minute later, Kostya joins us, flopping on the nearest couch beside us. Aleksandr checks his phone and then throws Kirill a look. And as if he had the capacity to read his brother’s mind, Kirill gets up from his seat and leaves, only to return a few minutes later, accompanied by a frail woman with a floral scarf wrapped around her head.
“ Bozhe moy, ” she breathes, covering her mouth as she stares at Frankie.
“She doesn’t speak Russian,” Kirill says softly.
“Of course not,” the woman replies in heavily-accented English. Kirill helps her to Frankie, who rises to meet her halfway.
“Hello…I… I’m Frankie.”
Tears well in the woman’s eyes as she embraces her. “I’m so happy you’re here.”
When they pull apart, I catch the quiet signs—the scarf carefully tied around her head, the absence of eyebrows, the way her blouse hangs a little too loosely on her frame.
She’s fighting something. Something that’s fighting right back.
And suddenly, this meet and greet feels a little more personal than I was ready for.
Hating the Petrovs was one thing…sympathizing with them… is quite another.
“I’m Elena. Misha’s wife,” the woman says gently, then turns to me, all smiles. “And you must be Frankie’s other half, Lucy. Did I say that right?”
I smile despite myself. “Close enough. It’s Luciano. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Petrov.”
“Call me Elena. We’re all family here.”
Family.
The word echoes, confusing and heavy.
And fuck. Is my Frankie related to the Petrovs somehow?
“Come, Kill. I saw my beautiful plemyannitsa. I’m happy now,” Elena says, and Kirill lifts her easily in his arms, like she weighs no heavier than a feather.
We watch them leave, but before we can speak, a presence steals the air from the room.
Because that’s when Misha enters.
The Pakhan .
The Black Shadow of Moscow.
Misha Petrov—dark blond hair cropped short, ocean-blue eyes that could freeze a man with a single glance. His face is all hard lines, the kind carved from war and power. He walks with command in every step, causing Frankie to go rigid beside me. I instinctively step in front of her, needing to shield her from him.
He doesn’t speak. Just looks at me.
Orders me to move, with nothing more than his eyes.
But before I can tell him to fuck off, Frankie steps around me.
And then, to my shock and horror, he pulls my love into his arms.
Not like a mafia boss. Not like a stranger.
But like a father.
“I found you,” he murmurs. “I finally found you.”