4. Alexei
ALEXEI
Dinner should feel normal. The dining room looks the same as it always does. Staff moves quietly between the table and kitchen, carrying dishes prepared with the same care they bring every evening.
Nothing about the room has changed, but everything else has. Irina's absence hangs over the house like a shadow nobody knows how to step around. No one has relaxed since the attack, and I have no intention of allowing that to change.
I sit at the head of the table while Roman occupies the chair to my right. Across from us, Maggie helps Ivy into her seat before taking the chair beside her. Winston claims a spot near Ivy's feet while Daisy chooses to sprawl beside Maggie.
“Daisy snores.”
Roman lifts an eyebrow. “She does?”
Ivy nods solemnly. “Really loud.”
Beneath the table, Daisy doesn't so much as open an eye in response to the accusation.
“And Winston steals blankets,” Ivy continues.
Winston remains stretched across the floor near her feet, looking entirely innocent.
Roman glances toward the dogs. “A criminal.”
“That's what Maggie says.”
Maggie doesn't even try to hide her amusement.
“I've got evidence,” Ivy adds.
The conversation isn't much, but it fills some of the silence. More importantly, it keeps Ivy talking.
Every few minutes, Maggie encourages another bite of food while Ivy tells Roman stories about the other dogs and cats at the shelter.
Before long, more food disappears from her plate.
She does it without pressure or commands, never allowing the moment to become a battle.
Instead, she uses encouragement, humor, and endless patience to guide Ivy toward another bite.
“How about one more for me, sweetheart?”
Ivy narrows her eyes at the fork. “Just one?”
“Scout's honor.”
“You weren't a scout.”
Maggie points her fork at Ivy. “You’re awfully observant for somebody avoidin’ her vegetables.”
A tiny smile appears on Ivy's face before she finally takes the bite.
Roman notices the exchange. My brother says very little during the meal, but I know him too well to miss what occupies his attention. He watches the room the way he watches everything. Patiently. Thoroughly. Nothing escapes him.
Several times, I catch him studying Maggie. Several more times, I catch him studying me while I watch Maggie. I ignore it, or at least I try to.
Dinner continues in relative peace. At one point, Roman sets down his wine glass and looks across the table.
“You own the shelter?” he asks.
Maggie looks mildly surprised. “That’s right.”
“You started it?”
She shakes her head. “No. I worked there for years. Miss Eleanor retired and sold it to me.”
Roman nods once. “Difficult business.”
A soft laugh leaves her. “That's one way to put it.”
“What is another?”
Maggie's smile appears. “Underfunded, overcrowded, emotionally exhausting, and somehow still the best thing I've ever done.”
Roman leans back, watching her. I recognize the look. He rarely asks follow-up questions something has piqued his interest.
“You enjoy it?”
“I love it.”
The certainty in her voice leaves no room for doubt. Not because she's trying to impress anyone but because it's true.
Roman studies her for another moment. “Most people would have chosen an easier path.”
Maggie glances down at Ivy. “Probably.”
“Why didn't you?”
The question feels simple. It isn't. My brother isn't really asking about the shelter.
Maggie considers it. “Because somebody has to help them.”
Roman remains silent.
She shrugs lightly. “The animals, I mean. Most of them didn't end up there because they did anythin’ wrong. Life just wasn't particularly fair to them.”
The answer explains more about her than anything else she's said all evening. Maggie doesn't help those animals because it's rewarding. She helps them because she believes someone should.
Ivy tugs on Maggie's sleeve. “Remember that orange kitten that got stuck on top of the supply closet?”
Maggie groans immediately. “I was hopin’ we'd never speak of that again.”
Ivy giggles. “You climbed the big ladder.”
“I did.”
“And then you got stuck,” Ivy giggles.
Maggie points her fork at Ivy. “The details are bein’ exaggerated.”
“You had to call Jules,” Ivy grins.
Maggie covers her mouth, trying and failing to hide her laughter. “I can’t believe you're tellin' this story.”
Ivy looks at Roman like she's sharing an important fact. “Maggie's good at saving animals.”
A faint flush creeps into Maggie's cheeks. “Most of the time.”
“All the time,” Ivy corrects.
Maggie laughs softly. Ivy joins her. For the first time all evening, Ivy sounds like herself.
Roman clears his throat. I glance up to find one dark eyebrow raised in my direction.
The message is clear enough. My brother has already noticed where my focus keeps going tonight.
I busy myself with my dinner rather than acknowledging it, but the faint amusement on his face tells me he understands exactly what he's seeing. The bastard enjoys this far too much.
Eventually, Ivy grows tired enough that exhaustion becomes impossible to hide. Her responses are slow, and her eyes droop. Several times, she leans against Maggie.
“You look sleepy, sweetheart,” Maggie murmurs.
“I'm not tired.” The protest arrives alongside a yawn.
Roman lowers his glass. My brother has never possessed much patience for small talk. The fact that he remains at the table listening to stories about dogs, kittens, and shelter mishaps is rare enough to qualify as a historical event.
“That's what all sleepy children say,” Maggie tells her.
“I'm not a child.” Ivy folds her arms across her chest. “I'm six.”
“Practically ancient,” I say.
Maggie laughs.
I rise from my chair. “I think bedtime is winning this argument.”
Ivy groans dramatically.
Maggie stands. “I'll help her get ready.”
My daughter slides out of her chair and reaches for Maggie's hand before following her out of the room. Winston hurries after them while Daisy follows at a slower pace.
Roman pushes back his chair. “Office.”
One word. I follow him from the dining room.
Roman moves toward the windows while I close the office door behind us. The conversation downstairs is over. The real one starts now.
Beyond the windows, security lights illuminate the grounds while men patrol the perimeter in pairs. Every gate is covered. Every entrance is watched. Luka doubled the exterior rotation before dinner, and Roman's men reinforced the front approach as soon as they arrived.
I built this estate to keep my daughter safe. Tonight it looks far too much like the world I spent eight years trying to leave behind.
Roman turns from the window. “Walk me through the shelter attack.”
I move toward the desk where Luka left the preliminary reports.
Photographs, maps, witness notes, and security summaries cover the surface in neat stacks.
“I had men inside and outside. Plainclothes posted near the entrances, cameras checked before the event, routes cleared, and a response vehicle two blocks away.”
Roman’s face doesn’t change. “And they reached her.”
My hand tightens against the edge of the desk before I force it loose. “They reached the hallway. They never left with her.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No.” I look up from the report. “It’s not.”
The truth lies between us, ugly and impossible to dress into anything else. My security was tight. My planning was sound. None of that matters because Irina is dead, and men got close enough to put their hands on my daughter.
Roman steps closer to the desk. “Where was the break?”
“There wasn’t a single break. That’s the problem.
” I take one of the marked photographs and push it toward him.
“They used the event against us. Volunteers, donors, vendors, animals moving in and out of the building, public access, noise, confusion. The shelter was never designed for a lockdown operation.”
“Maggie shouldn’t have been exposed.”
“No.” I look down at the photograph again. “She should never have been part of this.”
Roman's eyes stay on me before he reaches into his jacket and slides a folded report across the desk. “The tattoo gave us a lead.”
I pick up the report and scan the first page.
“Not a street criminal or one of Enzo's usual men,” he continues.
I scan the rest. A grainy image of the tattoo appears, a black crown above crossed daggers. I've seen enough marks, crests, and symbols in my life to know it belongs to an organization, not a man.
I look up. “What did you find?”
“A mercenary network. No official names. They use different cells and passports. Former military. Private security. Intelligence castoffs. Men who understand surveillance, extraction, and how to disappear.”
A knot forms between my shoulders. “For hire.”
“For the right price.”
“Enzo can afford that.”
“He can,” Roman agrees. “But the method doesn’t match him.”
I lean back against the desk and stare at the tattoo again. “Because Enzo wants leverage. This wasn’t only leverage.”
“No,” Roman says. “This was an attempt to take Ivy cleanly. If they had succeeded, she would already be out of the state.”
My fingers grip the edge of the photograph. They weren't trying to scare me or send a message. They were trying to take my daughter.
“Don't waste time thinking about what almost happened.”
I meet his eyes. “It’s a little late for that.”
“Then use it and make sure it never happens again.”
I place the photograph on the desk. “Find who paid them.”
“I will.” There isn't a trace of uncertainty in his voice. “Money moved through three layers before reaching the broker. Offshore entity, private security shell, then an intermediary account linked to port operations.”
“It’s Enzo.”
“Possibly. The link points toward him, but not cleanly enough.”
I shake my head once. “He’s too careful to leave a clean trail.”
“He’s careful,” Roman says. “He’s not invisible.”
There’s a difference. A man like Enzo believes discretion makes him untouchable. It doesn’t. It only makes the process of reaching him more satisfying.