It was a ghost town of wealth and isolation.

For the first forty-eight hours, the tension inside the timber lodge was thick enough to cut with a knife. Dmitri and a rotating team of six armed guards secured the perimeter, their tactical vehicles hidden beneath green camouflage tarps behind the massive carriage house.

I spent most of my time in the industrial-sized kitchen, baking bread and trying to keep Sophie distracted from the fact that our lives had completely imploded.

“Mommy, can we go outside and make a snow angel?” Sophie asked, pressing her small nose against the frosty kitchen window, watching the heavy flakes drift down through the pines.

“Not yet, baby,” I said, sliding a tray of cinnamon rolls into the massive stone oven. “The driveway is still blocked with snow.”

The truth was, I was terrified to let her out of my sight. Senator Vance’s reach was long, and even though Alexei insisted the estate was impenetrable, the memory of that tiny silver dart embedded in the study window still haunted my nightmares.

The heavy kitchen door swung open, and Alexei walked in.

He had changed out of his blood-stained suit into a thick black wool sweater and dark denim jeans. The heavy beard he usually shaved clean was beginning to shadow his jaw, making him look less like a corporate billionaire and more like an old-world timber baron carved out of the northern wilderness.

He stopped by the counter, his eyes drifting over the warm, golden dough rising in porcelain bowls.

“You’re baking again,” Alexei noted, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.

“It keeps my hands busy,” I muttered, not looking up as I wiped flour from my apron. “And it keeps Sophie fed. Though I noticed your pantry is stocked with enough flour to feed a small army for a decade.”

“When you grow up the way I did, Clara, you learn that empires can crumble overnight, but a loaf of bread can buy you another week,” Alexei said quietly. He walked over, leaning his heavy forearms against the wooden counter, staring down at Sophie, who was happily coloring a picture of a dinoNextr with green crayon.

“How are you feeling?” I asked, finally meeting his gaze. Up close, the pale exhaustion from the poisoning had faded, replaced by a dangerous, coiled energy.

“Like a man who was given a second chance he didn't necessarily deserve,” Alexei said, his ice-blue eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my breath catch. “Your daughter saved my life, Clara. In my world, debts like that are never forgotten.”

“She’s four, Alexei,” I said softly, stepping back to put a safe distance between us. “She thought she was playing doctor. She didn't know she was rescuing a mafia boss.”

“She knew I was scared,” Alexei said simply, his voice dropping into something raw and unguarded. “That’s all children ever need to know.”

Before I could answer, a sharp, frantic knock echoed from the heavy oak doors leading to the main foyer.

Dmitri burst into the kitchen, his tactical vest half-zipped, a secure satellite phone clutched in his massive hand. His face was paler than I had ever seen it.

“Boss,” Dmitri panted, stopping dead as he saw Alexei standing near us. “We just caught a signal intercept on the encrypted relay. Vance’s people didn't wait for us to make a move.”

Alexei straightened instantly, all traces of gentleness vanishing from his face. The mafia boss returned in a fraction of a second, cold, lethal, and razor-sharp.

“Speak.”

“They tracked our convoy route north,” Dmitri said rapidly. “A tactical team in unmarked snowmobiles crossed the ridge line ten minutes ago. They’re hitting the generator shed right now. Power is going to cut out in less than two minutes.”

As if on cue, the humming industrial refrigerator in the corner stuttered, flickered twice, and died. The overhead lights plunged into absolute darkness before the heavy emergency backup generators kicked in with a dull, throbbing hum, bathing the kitchen in an eerie, red-tinted glow.

Sophie gasped, dropping her green crayon and running toward me, burying her face in my knees.

“Mommy, what’s happening?” she cried.

“Nothing, baby, Mommy’s right here,” I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Alexei didn't panic. He turned to Dmitri, his voice slicing through the red-lit air like a blade.

“How many?”

“At least a dozen,” Dmitri said, pulling the slide of his submachine gun back with a crisp, metallic snap. “They’ve got thermal optics. They know we’re inside.”

Alexei reached down, pulling a heavy black 9mm pistol from a concealed holster beneath his sweater, checking the magazine with practiced, effortless skill. Then, he looked at me, his eyes burning with an unyielding, terrifying resolve.

“Clara,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “Take Sophie down to the storm shelter beneath the wine cellar. There’s a reinforced steel door with a biometric lock. Punch in my birthday—November 14—and lock it from the inside.”

“What about you?” I cried, grabbing his arm. “Alexei, they’re professionals! You can’t fight a dozen armed men by yourself!”

“I won’t be by myself,” Alexei said, a dark, dangerous smile touching the corner of his lips as he looked toward Dmitri and the two guards rushing into the hallway with heavy weaponry. “I’m the master of this house. And nobody touches my kitchen.”