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Lyon had had dreams for the place when he’d bought it as a gift for Kira, had imagined it restored and gleaming under her refined hand. It had been built in the Tudor style, and its gabled roof gave it the appearance of being ripped from a storybook. Four chimneys jutted into the sky, and Lyon remembered how he’d imagined making love to Kira while a fire blazed in the hearth of the big bedroom on the second floor, the bedroom he’d planned to turn into a luxurious suite of rooms they would share.
Now the house looked as barren as his heart, felt as hopeless as the dreams that had become nothing but smoke.
He exited the car and Rurik looked around before following Lyon to the front door.
Like the warehouse, the house in Lake Forest had been purchased through shell companies. It would be nearly impossible to trace to Lyon. He’d seen Rurik checking the mirrors for a tail all the way across the city, but they were alone on the property, which was just as Lyon had intended.
Musa was out there somewhere, but he wasn’t here.
Markus stepped out of the shadows when Lyon reached the steps. “Morning, Mr. Antonov.”
“Good morning,” Lyon said. “Anything I need to know?”
He assumed the answer was no. If anything important had happened, Alek would have contacted him. But it was important that Lyon build relationships with the men on his team, especially those tasked with guarding his family.
And Kira was his family, whether she liked it or not, if only in name.
Lyon wanted the men guarding her to feel a sense of loyalty that went beyond the hierarchy of the bratva.
Markus shook his head. “Not a peep.”
“Good. Can I get you anything? Food? Coffee?” Lyon asked.
The man looked surprised. “No, thank you. Shift change in an hour."
Lyon rested a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Let someone know if you change your mind. It feels like the Siberian tundra out here.”
The man chuckled. “Fucking Chicago.”
Lyon smiled and nodded on his way into the house.
He stepped inside with Rurik on his heels. The house was warm at least, and Lyon shrugged off his coat. Another guard stood in the front room that was once the parlor. Lyon’s eyes went to the fireplace where he’d burned Kira’s letter. He pushed the memory aside and looked at the guard, taking note of the rifle resting against the wall.
“Good morning,” Lyon said. “Where is Alek?”
“Good morning, Mr. Antonov,” the guard said. He was tall and thin, with fair hair and a hawkish nose. He also happened to be a second-generation immigrant and former Marine who’d been an expert sharpshooter. “In the kitchen, I think.”
Lyon nodded. “Thank you for your service. I know it’s a tedious duty.”
“It’s my honor, Mr. Antonov.”
Would these men have been as solicitous a week ago, when Lyon’s position in the bratva had been more precarious? It was impossible to say, but Lyon was willing to wipe the slate clean, give everyone a chance to choose a side.
They would have to choose his side of course. But as long as they did, they would be appreciated, rewarded.
Lyon continued through the house toward the kitchen while Rurik stayed to speak with the guard. Lyon made a note to have furniture brought into the house. He’d planned for Kira to make those choices, but the guards needed to be comfortable in the meantime.
He found Alek in the kitchen making eggs and felt a pang of appreciation. Alek Evanoff had as much experience as Lyon, and he’d proven his loyalty a hundred times over, choosing Lyon’s side when Lyon had been the longest shot imaginable for pakhan.
Now he was making breakfast for Kira Baranov, and he was doing it for the simple reason that Lyon had asked him to do so.
“Smells good,” Lyon said.
Alek turned toward him. “For all the good it will do.”
“She’s still not eating?” Lyon asked.
Alek turned off the stove and reached for the empty plate on the counter. “Not a bite.”
