The rhythmic hum of the private jet's descent filled the cabin, but Mikhail Volkov barely noticed. His mind was on the call he'd taken twenty minutes earlier—one that had shifted the tone of his entire return.
Lucas Costanzo had gotten involved.
Personally. Mikhail's jaw tightened as he lit a cigar with practiced ease. The smoke curled like a viper around his fingers, and his eyes—cold and predatory—stared out the window as the skyline of the city came into view.
"Lucas doesn't usually touch the pawns," he muttered to himself. "So why now?"
Across from him, his right-hand man, Dmitri, shifted uncomfortably. "We have confirmation. The scapegoat you arranged—he's in his custody. Alive."
Mikhail's gaze slid to him like a blade. "And what did this scapegoat confess before being caught?"
"He won't say anything. We trained him well. He only knows what we fed him."
Mikhail exhaled slowly, then smiled—a dark, humorless stretch of lips. "Good. But Lucas isn't stupid. If he's digging, he's close."
Dmitri hesitated. "Should I alert our inside contacts?"
"No," Mikhail said flatly. "Not yet. Let him feel clever. Let him believe he's gaining ground." He leaned back, crossing one ankle over the other. "It's better when they fall from somewhere high."
---
The car ride from the airstrip to the estate was silent, save for the low growl of the engine. The moment Mikhail stepped inside his mansion, the staff froze like mice sensing a cat.
But it was Irina's reaction that pleased him most.
She had been walking down the grand staircase in a light silk robe, her hair loosely pinned, eyes relaxed—until she saw him.
And then her entire body stiffened.
A flicker of fear crossed her face before she masked it with a smile.
"You're back early," she said, voice composed but tight at the edges. "I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow night."
Mikhail stepped forward slowly, removing his coat. "Surprises keep the marriage exciting, no?"
She didn't answer. Only nodded and glanced toward the hall, as if calculating an escape route she'd never be allowed to take.
He closed the distance between them, trailing a finger along the polished wood railing. "Did you miss me, moya zvezda?"
Irina held her ground, chin lifted. "Of course."
Mikhail's eyes glittered. "Hmm." He reached up and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered a second too long on her jaw. "Strange. Your eyes say otherwise."
She flinched subtly. Barely. But he saw it. He always saw it.
He turned abruptly and walked toward the sitting room. "Join me. I brought a new wine from Prague. The kind you like. The one that makes you talk too much."
Irina followed after a beat. Not because she wanted to. But because not following would be worse.
---
As she poured the wine with a careful hand, Mikhail studied her.
His wife.
Beautiful. Sharp. And utterly cornered.
He'd once adored her for her mind. Now he watched it like a man observing a lock he would eventually pick apart.
"You've been quiet lately," he said after sipping. "Even with your friends." His emphasis on friends was enough to alert her that he knew about her calling her friend.
Irina's voice was even. "I've had headaches."
"Ah," he nodded. "Of course. A woman like you... too much thinking, not enough obedience."
Her knuckles whitened around the stem of the glass. But she said nothing.
Mikhail smiled. A slow, terrible thing. He rose from the couch, circling her once like a vulture. Then leaned in close, voice a whisper of ice.
"You know I love you, Irina."
She didn't respond. These words used to give her hope some years back but now they are nothing but empty promises.
He pulled back, smoothed her hair, and said quietly—almost sweetly, "And I always take care of what I love. Even if I have to break it first." She clinched at his choice of words.
The sound of Mikhail's footsteps disappeared down the hallway, each one sharp and deliberate. Irina stood motionless in the sitting room, her wine glass trembling ever so slightly in her hand.
He hadn't yelled. He hadn't accused. But she felt it—beneath the polished words and caressing tone—something coiled, ready to strike.
Her heart thudded against her ribs as she waited. Counted ten breaths. Then twenty.
Then she moved.
Slipping from the sitting room, she made her way down the marble corridor to the guest bathroom—one of the only places not under camera surveillance.
She locked the door and knelt beside the cabinet. Quietly, carefully, she pulled out a thin makeup pouch and unzipped the false lining.
Inside, wrapped in silk, was the burner phone.
Her fingers shook as she powered it on. The screen flickered to life, a single message from two days ago still unread.
Renato: Are you safe? I haven't heard from you.
Irina closed her eyes, drawing in a shaky breath. No, she wasn't safe. Not anymore.
She typed fast:
"He's back early. Something's wrong. I think he suspects me."
Then, after a pause:
"If I disappear, don't come after me. Promise me."
Her thumb hovered over send. Then the door handle rattled.
"Irina." Mikhail's voice was muffled but unmistakable. Calm. That made it worse.
Her blood turned to ice. The handle jiggled again—firm this time. "Open the door, lyubimaya."
She shoved the phone back into the lining and zipped it shut. Flushed the toilet. Ran the tap. Her hands were slick with sweat as she quickly stashed the pouch back under the sink.
Another knock. Louder. "Irina."
She opened the door.
Mikhail stood there in his crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. He smiled as if amused. His eyes said otherwise.
"I was worried," he said smoothly. "You were gone a long time."
"I wasn't feeling well," she replied, forcing her voice steady. "Just needed a minute."
He glanced past her into the bathroom. "Strange. You never lock the door when you're not hiding something."
Her heart sank. He took a slow step inside, crowding the space between them. He reached past her and turned off the running tap. Then looked at her.
"No more lies, Irina."
She said nothing.
His fingers lifted to her chin. Not hard, but with a grip that promised it could be.
"I've let you play your little games," he said quietly. "Let you believe you're still... untouchable."
His thumb brushed her lower lip—not gently. "But let's not forget who you belong to."
Irina flinched.
He smiled again. "Disobedience has a price."
With a cruel softness, he let go of her and stepped back. "You'll spend the next two days in your room. No staff. No calls. No outside contact."
"I haven't—"
"Shh." He raised a finger. "That wasn't a request. You're not to be trusted right now."
And then, as casually as if he were discussing the weather, he added, "If I find another phone... next time, it won't be isolation."
He left the room without another word.
Irina stood frozen in the doorway, her legs weak, her heart pounding. The message hadn't been sent. Renato didn't know. And now… she wasn't sure if he ever would.