Chuckling, Mischa rushes to appease his audience. “And then…” He trails off, his dark eyes cutting in my direction. “It seems we have another listener who wants to join in. Should we let her?”
The girls turn toward me in confusion and squeal with delight.
“Willow!” In a flurry of flying pigtails and pink skirts, they rush to me, each one claiming a side of my waist.
“We thought you were dead,” Marnie declares solemnly, her amber eyes wide.
“Are you feeling better?” Aljona asks, prodding my hip with a tiny finger.
I place my hands on their heads and nod, allowing them to drag me over to where Mischa is.
“Come sit!” they command.
Obediently, I claim a seat beside Ivan, drawing my knees up to my chin. Taking his eyes from his book, he meets my gaze with a rare, impish grin.
“Now, where was I?” Mischa asks, folding his hands over his lap.
“The princess!” Marnie declares, reclaiming her perch behind him.
Aljona crawls onto an armrest and cups his jaw in both hands. “Tell it right this time,” she warns sternly. “It has to have a happy ending. And no monsters—” she glares at Ivan, who I assume from his innocent shrug was the culprit of what apparently derailed their last story time.
“Alright,” Mischa concedes with a nod. “Now, the princess—”
“Sir?” The stern voice cuts the cheerful mood like a knife. Sporting an expression no less serious, Evgeni appears in the doorway. One look at his posture—and the telltale bulging in the pocket of his suit where his hand rests—sends alarm surging down my spine. Instantly, the girls fall silent, and even Ivan sits up, his expression puzzled.
Mischa’s eyes narrow before he quashes the expression beneath a blank mask. “What is it?” he demands. I know firsthand how hard he’s strived to maintain the boundary between the sheltered safety his children appreciate and the world beyond them.
With his jaw clenched in determination, Evgeni shatters that façade by crossing to him, his head lowered in respect. Going off his pained grimace, I suspect he is well aware of the norms he’s breaking with every step. Whatever he has to say must be well worth risking his employer’s ire.
“I apologize, sir. But…” Near Mischa’s ear, he murmurs something the makes Mischa lurch upright so suddenly, he dislodges Marnie and nearly knocks Aljona off the chair altogether.
He spins to catch her a heartbeat before disaster, but brings her to me, lowering her into my arms.
“Papa? What’s wrong?” She tries tugging at his hand, but he gently pulls away.
“You stay here.” The order is as bracing as a slap in comparison to his previous playful baritone. Without another word, he turns, leaving the room with Evgeni on his heels.
I rise to my feet, thoroughly shaken. In all my years of knowing him, I can’t name a single time he’s ever shown this side of himself to his children. Not the caring father, but the cold mafiya leader striding with purpose. If I had to guess, only a handful of subjects would ever be the cause of this disruption.
The safety of his family being paramount among them.
I start after him, but Aljona grips me tight. “Don’t go!”
“It’s okay,” Ivan says. Dutifully, he sets his book aside and takes Aljona’s hand. Marnie races to him, and he wraps his free arm around her shoulders, holding both of his sisters protectively.
“I’ll watch them,” he declares with a brave nod. “I can do it.”
Reluctantly, I leave them there, approaching the foyer. Dread pools in the pit of my stomach with every step I take. A cruel flashback taunts me—a moment seven years ago, when another man left a similar play session in horror. We had been at the beach, and I can still remember the day so clearly.
Vin and I were frolicking in the water while Don watched protectively from the shore. Suddenly, he received a call that made him take off, leaving us to the care of a bodyguard. It was only hours later that we learned the tragic reason as to why.
I have to blink back the memory, returning to the present. I’m in the foyer, facing the front of the house. The main doors are wide open, swinging aimlessly in a slight wind. At the base of the front steps, Mischa stands, watching the road, Evgeni beside him.
“They’re approaching now, sir,” the bodyguard warns.
I can hear the metallic clang of the gates opening in the distance, followed by shouting. The alarmed cries only seem to grow louder. More men stream from various corners of the property as if in some eerie, coordinated display.
They stop short near the road, and at the end of the driveway, a van appears, speeding toward the house. I vaguely recognize it as one of the family vehicles, but it’s instantly apparent that something is wrong. A jagged crack slashes through the windshield, and shards of glass glitter over the lawn, falling at random from all four main windows. In a violent spray of dirt and gravel, it sways on and off the road before skidding to a stop in a bed of roses. The door to the front seat opens, and the driver staggers out.
Her slender shape sets her apart from the usual men Mischa employs. Horrified, I recognize her pale face, contorted in pain. Ellen.
I don’t even register moving before I’m already running across the lawn on bare feet.
With a roar, Mischa barrels past me, gathering her into his arms. She resists the embrace, reaching for the mangled body of the van.
“Eli…” Her voice is a faint shadow of its usual cadence as if it’s taking everything in her just to speak. Blood paints a startling bright path from her forehead down to her shoulder, staining her yellow dress.
Whatever pain she’s in doesn’t deter her from her sole focus. Persistent, she reaches for him, oblivious to Mischa. “Eli,” she murmurs, her eyelids fluttering. “Eli…”
One of the men wrenches open the door to the back seat, and my knees buckle at the scene awaiting within. Blood paints the tanned leather in a vicious spray. Amid the carnage, slumped on his side is a figure so small, so pale…
I barely recognize him.
My mouth opens for a soundless scream. I can’t hear. My pulse surges through my eardrums too fiercely, drowning out everything else. I reach for him, swaying on my feet. Only when Evgeni climbs in beside him and feels along his neck can I breathe again.
“He’s alive,” the man says. Easily, he lifts the boy into his arms and carries him out onto the lawn. What the light reveals churns my stomach even more. He may be alive, but his right arm is twisted at an unnatural angle, drenched in blood from the shoulder down.
“Fuck,” Mischa rasps. His eyes dart helplessly from his wife to his son. I’ve never seen him like this—paralyzed.
“We need to get him to a hospital,” Evgeni deduces. Turning to another man, he snarls, “Bring another car around! Now!”
“Is he alright?” Ellen demands, clawing desperately at Mischa’s forearm. She’s too weak to lift her head enough to see the boy for herself, no matter how hard she tries. “Please, is he alright?”
Even as she speaks, Mischa swears and drops to his knees, cradling her against him. He snatches a handful of her skirt, and I realize why. Ellen’s whiter than snow in his arms—I’ve never seen the color drain from anyone’s face so quickly. Not all of the blood staining the fabric comes from her forehead. A glaring amount streaks her legs, and a growing stain paints the fabric near her waist.