Outside the half-closed door, Matteo turned his back, one hand braced against the wall.
Elena could see only part of him through the narrow gap. His shoulders were rigid. His head was bowed. He looked less like a king than a man being punished by a miracle.
“What’s her name?” Elena asked after a while.
Matteo did not answer immediately.
“Sofia.”
Elena closed her eyes.
Of course.
A soft name for a child born into a hard world.
“She’s dehydrated,” Elena said. “Not severely yet, but close. When we land, she needs a doctor immediately.”
“We are not landing where planned.”
Elena’s eyes opened.
“What?”
Matteo looked over his shoulder then, his face returning to stone.
“We were flying to New York. We’re diverting.”
“To where?”
“Somewhere safe.”
A coldness slid beneath Elena’s skin.
“Safe from what?”
For the first time, Matteo did not answer fast enough.
The baby fed greedily now, one tiny hand resting against Elena’s skin. That touch made it difficult to feel fear properly. But Elena forced herself to look at the man in the doorway.
“Mr. Volkov,” she said carefully, “why is your baby starving on a private jet over the Atlantic?”
His eyes flickered.
There it was.
The secret.
The reason all those armed men looked helpless instead of merely incompetent. The reason the flight attendant’s hands shook. The reason a man like Matteo Volkov had boarded a long flight with a newborn who could not tolerate a bottle.
“Her wet nurse was poisoned in Paris,” he said.
Elena’s stomach dropped.
“She died two hours before takeoff. The doctor said Sofia might accept formula once hungry enough.”
“And you believed him?”
“I believed I had enemies who knew exactly what my daughter needed to survive.”
Elena held the baby closer.
The room suddenly felt too small, the sky outside too dark, the engines too loud.
“Who would poison a woman feeding an infant?”
Matteo’s voice went flat.
“Someone who wanted me to make a mistake.”
Elena looked down at Sofia. The baby’s lashes fluttered. Her breathing had steadied. Milk had softened the sharp panic in her face.
“You need the police,” Elena said.
Matteo laughed once, without humor.
“In my world, police arrive after the graves are dug.”
“Then land and take her to a hospital.”
“I will.”
“Good.”
“And you will come with us.”
Elena went still.
The baby continued nursing, unaware that the air in the room had turned to ice.
“No,” Elena said.
Matteo stepped fully into the doorway.
“I am not asking.”
Elena’s fingers tightened around Sofia before she could stop herself.
That tiny movement did not escape him.
“You care already,” he said quietly.
Her eyes flashed.
“Do not use that against me.”
“Someone killed the only woman who could feed my daughter. You are now the only woman who can keep her alive until I find another safe source.”
“That is not my responsibility.”
“No,” Matteo said. “It is mine. And I am making sure she lives.”
Elena felt panic rise behind her ribs. Home was a small apartment in Boston full of unopened condolence cards and unpaid medical bills. Home was grief, but it was hers. Her pain. Her silence. Her locked nursery.
This man was telling her even that could be taken.
“You cannot kidnap me because your baby needs milk,” she whispered.
His expression tightened, not with guilt exactly, but something near it.
“I can protect you because my enemies now know you matter.”
“No one knows I matter.”
Matteo’s gaze slid toward the cabin.
“The people on this aircraft do. And one of them is not mine.”
Elena’s blood went cold.
Before she could ask, a sound cracked through the jet.
Not thunder.
Not turbulence.
A gunshot.
The plane lurched as screams erupted beyond the door.
Matteo moved so fast Elena barely saw him. One moment he was in the doorway, the next he had slammed the bedroom door shut and locked it from inside. Sofia startled, lost her latch, and began to cry again.
“Stay behind the bed,” Matteo ordered.