High stone walls topped with discreet razor wire cut off the outside world. Towering century-old oaks lined the private drive, their bare branches weeping icy water onto the hood of the Maybach as it glided toward a sprawling brick-and-limestone manor that looked more like a gothic embassy than a private residence.
Spotlights flared from the perimeter watchtowers, sweeping over the vehicle before clicking off as the gates opened. Armed men in dark overcoats stood stationed at fifty-yard intervals, submachine guns slung discreetly across their chests.
The car stopped before a grand limestone portico.
Lev killed the engine and hurried to open the door, but Victor was already moving. He stepped into the drizzle, reached into the cabin, and took Aliyah’s hand, helping her onto the dry flagstones beneath the archway.
Aliyah hesitated on the threshold. Her canvas sneakers squeaked against the polished black granite of the grand foyer.
The interior was magnificent, but suffocatingly cold.
A double curved staircase of dark oak rose toward a vaulted ceiling crowned by an antique crystal chandelier. Oil paintings of maritime storms and Russian landscapes hung along the wood-paneled walls. There were no photographs. No flowers. No personal trinkets that suggested a human being actually lived inside these walls.
It was a museum dedicated to isolation.
An older woman with silver hair pulled into a severe bun stepped out from the library corridor. Dressed in a crisp charcoal wool dress, she bowed her head with deep reverence.
“Welcome home, Don Victor,” the housekeeper said in flawless Russian, before switching smoothly to English as her gaze flicked to Aliyah. “The master suite on the east wing has been prepared, as you requested.”
“Thank you, Irina,” Victor said, shedding his damp overcoat and handing it to Lev. “Have Dr. Markov come to the study immediately. Miss Brooks requires medical attention.”
“I told you, I don’t need a doctor,” Aliyah protested, stepping forward, though the grandeur of the room made her feel impossibly small in her fraying jeans and worn sneakers. “I just need clean water, antiseptic, and three butterfly bandages.”
Victor stopped, turning to face her. His tie was loosened, the collar of his white shirt slightly undone, giving him an air of dangerous, relaxed power.
“You are a guest beneath my roof, Miss Brooks,” Victor said, his tone brook-no-argument. “In this house, my guests do not stitch their own wounds with sewing kit thread. You will allow Markov to examine your hand. Then you will eat.”
“And then?” she challenged, tilting her chin up to meet his glacial stare. “Do I get to leave? Or am I your prisoner now?”
A faint, dangerous flicker crossed Victor’s eyes. He took two slow steps toward her, closing the space until she had to tilt her head back to hold his gaze.
“If you walk out those gates tonight, Aliyah, you will be dead before sunrise,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that hypnotic, lethal register. “Connor O’Sullivan has four hit squads scouring Boston for the girl with the dark braid who was seen at the Red Lion. My home is the only square mile in Massachusetts where you are untouchable.”
“So you’re keeping me safe by trapping me in a cage?”
“A cage keeps things inside,” Victor whispered, his hand rising to trace the soft curve of her collarbone above her sweater, his fingers sending a jolt of heat through her veins that made her breath hitch. “A fortress keeps the monsters out. Learn the difference.”
He turned to the housekeeper. “Take her to the guest suite. Provide her with whatever she requests.”
Without waiting for her reply, Victor marched down the long corridor toward his study, his leather shoes clicking with military precision against the parquet floor.
Irina led Aliyah up the sweeping staircase to the east wing.
The suite prepared for her was larger than the entire second floor of her family’s old house in Somerville. A king-sized bed draped in heavy ivory linen stood before a carved marble fireplace where dry oak logs already crackled with warm, radiant heat. Through an arched doorway, an en-suite bathroom gleamed with white Carrera marble, a deep clawfoot tub steaming with fragrant pine oils.
On the mahogany vanity sat a fresh set of clothes: a soft cream cashmere sweater, tailored black trousers, and a pair of Italian leather slippers.
Within ten minutes, a quiet knock sounded at the door.
A lean man in his late fifties with round wire-rimmed glasses and a worn leather medical satchel entered, introducing himself as Dr. Markov. He was gentle, efficient, and spoke very little, cleaning the jagged cut across Aliyah’s palm with surgical precision before applying liquid stitches and a sterile, waterproof bandage.
