Page 121 of Mile High Ruin

Instead, the house is old and elegant, built from pale stone with a dark slate roof and tall windows overlooking landscaped grounds. There are broad terraces running along the rear and vines climbing part of one wing. The architecture feels European without being ostentatious, large enough to be intimidating but not designed to look like a hotel.

The garden surprises me even more.

There are roses.

Actual roses.

Rows of them stretch beside clipped hedges, and beyond them I can see fruit trees, a greenhouse, and what looks like a small vegetable garden near one of the outbuildings.

It would almost be peaceful if there were not armed men positioned at regular intervals around the property. One of them is standing beside a flower bed holding a rifle.

That ruins the effect slightly.

When the vehicles stop, Vadim gets out first and immediately disappears into a conversation with Anton and two men I have never seen before. Daniel is taken toward another building almost as soon as we arrive.

He notices where they are leading him. “Where exactly am I going?”

Anton answers without slowing. “We have more questions.”

“I answered questions in Bucharest.”

“You will answer some again.”

Daniel looks back toward us with obvious frustration. “This is absurd.”

Nobody appears especially concerned about his opinion.

I watch him disappear through a side entrance with two security men accompanying him.

Camille moves closer to me. “That man scares me.”

I assume she means Anton until I follow her gaze.

Vadim is standing near the steps speaking quietly to one of his men, his face expressionless while the other man listens with the rigid attention people seem to adopt whenever Vadim addresses them.

Yesterday I would have dismissed Camille’s comment.

I spent most of the first flight thinking he was arrogant, controlling, and unnecessarily rude, but I also saw the man who defended me from Warren, carried me when I was shaking, told me about being locked in a cellar as a child, and let me see flashes of humor he rarely seems to show anyone else.

Now I’m not entirely sure which version I misjudged.

Maybe both.

“He can be…” I search for a word that doesn’t sound ridiculous considering everything that has happened. “Intense.”

Camille looks at me. “That’s one way to describe it.”

I almost laugh.

A woman in her fifties meets us at the entrance, though I’m not sure whether she’s a housekeeper, manager, relative, or simply another person who understands Vadim’s world better than I do. She shows Camille and me upstairs while two members of staff bring whatever essentials were arranged after our luggage remained behind on the original aircraft.

My room overlooks the rear gardens. It’s larger than my apartment bedroom and probably contains more expensive furniture than everything I own combined, but I barely register the carved wardrobe or upholstered chairs because the bed looks enormous and soft enough to swallow me whole.

Camille appears in my doorway ten minutes later after changing into clothes someone apparently found in her size. “I’m going to sleep.”

“That sounds intelligent.”

She lingers. “Are you okay?”