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She opened the door and he stepped aside.
A young woman with long brown hair stood next to a gray-haired gentleman. Behind them, two covered racks of clothes stood next to several suitcases.
“Hello,” Kira said. What was this? “I’m Kira Antonov. I’m sorry. I… I don’t know who you are.”
The older man was trim and chic in a purple suit, his blue eyes peering at her from behind fashionable glasses. “My dear, we’re the answer to your prayers.” He scanned her body, his gaze analytical as he took in the track suit. “And I do hope you have been saying them.”
The criticism wasn’t unkind, and she suddenly understood.
They were stylists. Lyon had sent them to help her find clothes.
She laughed. “You have no idea.” She stood back to open the door wider. “Please come in.”
20
Lyon navigated the rented Lexus slowly down the private road, eyeing the security cameras mounted on the old growth trees that rose on either side. They weren’t yet in full bloom, but many of them had sprouted fresh chartreuse leaves, and buds had formed on the others.
It felt like a promise, spring in bloom everywhere he looked, and he couldn’t help but feel a glimmer of hope that this was a new beginning for him and Kira too. That they would eliminate Vadim Ivanov before the birth of their baby and continue to live — and reign over the bratva — in Chicago.
He wanted it to be true, but he’d meant what he said to Roman: he wouldn’t risk their safety. And if protecting them meant walking away from the empire he’d fought for, the empire he’d bled for, so be it.
He emerged from the winding road into a circular drive laid around an old stone fountain burbling softly at its center. Beyond the drive, a stately house — more of a mansion really — loomed like something out of an old Gothic movie.
He should have expected it. Damian Cavallo was from old money, had inherited all of his parents’ wealth, then built on it,first through his opportunistic — and highly illegal — work while the Syndicate had been in turmoil, and later by leading their New York territory.
Still, it was impressive, the stately manor house making it clear that Cavallo and his family had been here for a long time and were here to stay.
He parked next to a beat-up green Volvo — interesting — and got out of the car. Beyond the house, verdant lawns stretched toward a line of towering trees that rimmed the property on all sides. It was hard to believe the countryside through which he’d driven was less than an hour outside of New York City.
He wondered how deep the forest went, wondered if Cavallo had security in the woods to keep his enemies from approaching the house from that direction.
He would have to ask. He had no intention of abandoning the home in Lake Forest he’d bought for Kira. They’d agreed they wouldn’t let Vadim’s assault sully their plans for the future.
Lyon had already made arrangements to provide for Bash’s mother. He and Kira would plant a tree on the grounds in the young man’s honor. Then they would get on with the business of living and making happier memories there.
Still, he wanted his wife and child — children, he hoped — to be safe, and he would go to any lengths to see it done, even if it meant stationing an army in the trees beyond the lawn of the house.
He headed for the front door (more security cameras mounted in the eaves), gravel crunching under his shoes as he walked past a picturesque fountain. The house in Lake Forest had a fountain too, but it was sadly defunct. Lyon was suddenly eager to get it running again. The sound of running water was soothing, and he imagined walking in the courtyard with Kira and the baby, letting the child splash his or her hands in the water.
He climbed the steps of a wide stone porch and used the heavy bronze door knocker — some kind of gargoyle, probably original to the house — to knock on the carved wood door.
He was getting ready to knock again when a woman with shoulder-length, dark hair opened the door. She was half-turned away, saying something to someone behind her, and when she turned to face him he was immediately struck by her wide brown eyes.
“You must be Lyon,” she said, a little out of breath.
He nodded.
She held out her hand. “Aria, Damian’s wife. I’m sorry to be so harried. No school for the twins today.” She laughed and held open the door. “They have us running.”
He shook her hand and stepped inside, his gaze traveling up the triple-height foyer and winding staircase to the second floor. The walls were covered with a beautifully vibrant wallpaper that looked like it had been there for a hundred years, although he knew that couldn’t be right because he’d heard the house had been badly damaged in a fire a few years earlier.
“I’ll take you to Damian,” Aria said.
He followed her down a long, wide hall, open doors revealing glimpses of various rooms, all of them richly but comfortably furnished. “You have a beautiful home,” he said, taking in the old art on the walls, the wide moldings and old furniture that spoke of history, of permanence.
Of family.
“Thank you,” she said, turning around to smile at him. “We’ve been renovating forever.” She laughed. “By the time we’re done, we’ll probably have to start all over.”
