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I had interpreted this as a direct attack on her parents, only to realize I was the one who brought death to her door. My connection to Tatiana may have made her family targets for revenge against me, and now the Russian mob is involved.
Sharp talons are ripping me to shreds from within. If I hadn't sought contact with Tatiana and hadn’t brought her into myworld, her parents would still be alive. She would be safe and whole, not shattered into a million pieces.
I should send her away, put as much distance between my world and hers as possible. But who will care for her then? What if they find her despite me exiling her? An image comes to mind of Tatiana lying on the floor like her parents do now.
In an ironic twist of fate, my hands are bound, my options limited to one choice. She must stay by my side.
Enzo comes to stand next to me. "The Bratva are ruthless, cunning, and near-impossible to predict – but this, never in a million years had I expected this. Philippe," his voice is tense, "how do you want us to handle this?"
"We gather evidence just as planned," I reply, trying to keep my voice steady. "And we find a way to make the Bratva scum pay. Find out which unit did this.”
I can't let Tatiana know about the Bratva's calling card. She's already lost so much. If I share this with her, no place in this world will ever feel safe to her again. I fear that it will cripple her spirit to know my enemies are now after her.
I enter the house and walk back to the kitchen. Tatiana is still huddled in the dining chair, her face pale and tear-streaked. I nod at Giovanni, who is standing guard at the back door, and he leaves us alone.
"Philippe," Tatiana whispers, her voice trembling. "What's happening?"
"Nothing you need to worry about,cara mia," I reply gently, cupping her face in my hands. "We're going to find out who did this. The men are on it."
"Thank you," she breathes, clutching my hand like a lifeline. Her eyes search mine, seeking reassurance and safety. I pull her into a tight embrace, and for just a moment, the world around us fades away. In that instant, it's just the two of us trying to hold onto each other like two drowning swimmers amidst an ocean of chaos.
I murmur into her hair, "I'll handle everything. All you have to do is trust me."
The city fades to the countryside as we drive, the compound rising ahead through a veil of trees. Tatiana gazes out the window.
We pull up to the grand entrance, and I exit first, circling to open Tatiana's door. She steps out cautiously like a doe entering unknown territory. I offer my arm.
"Welcome home," I say gently.
Her arm loops through mine, and we ascend the steps. The heavy oak doors swing open, revealing the palatial foyer within. I lead her inside, past marble floors and soaring ceilings—priceless works of art line the walls, interspersed with arched windows overlooking manicured lawns.
We pass through rooms more splendid than the last, and Tatiana doesn’t stir from beside me. We could be walking through the fires of hell, and I know she’d burn to death just this still.
It’s unfamiliar, terrorizing, to not know what could be going through her mind. Finally, we reached the guest suite. I open the door for her and let her through. Tatiana steps inside, taking in the canopy bed, plush chairs, and ornate fireplace. Another set of French doors reveals a private veranda and gardens beyond.
"Philippe..." She turns back to me, eyes still dead. "This is too much. I can stay in a smaller room."
I pause, holding her gaze. "All I ask is that you feel safe here. Comfortable.”
“Comfortable,” she repeats, tasting the word in her mouth like it’s a foreign concept and not applicable to her.
She studies me for a moment as if trying to reconcile my selflessness. Slowly, she nods. I lean in, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.
"Then my home is now yours. For as long as you need it." I squeeze her hand. "Get some rest. I'll check on you soon."
I turn to leave, acutely aware of her eyes following me out. Just before I close the door, I add: "If you require anything - anything at all - my staff is at your service. Just ask."
“I…” she mutters. “I need a shower.”
My breath catches as I take in the sight of her. I had been so focused on reading her face, trying to assess what she was thinking and feeling, that I had forgotten what she could see. The blood on her hands, her clothes.
It's the blood.
Of course, she needs a shower. Dark red stains mar the white shirt wrapped around her slender frame—the fabric clings to her body, outlining horrific splatters. My hands curl into fists at my sides. Rage wells up inside me, white-hot and visceral. I should have forced her to change at the house. For hours now, she’s been covered in this filth.
“Let me run you a bath,” I walk towards the en-suite.
“No, the staff can do it,” she insists like it’s beneath me to do something as simple as run a bath.
