Elena’s body obeyed before her mind caught up. She slid down between the bed and the wall, clutching Sofia against her chest.
Another gunshot.
Then a man shouting in Russian.
Then a wet, terrible thud.
Elena pressed her palm over Sofia’s ear and whispered, “Shh, little bird. Shh. I have you.”
Matteo pulled a gun from an ankle holster.
Elena stared at it.
He noticed.
“I told you,” he said, voice calm in a way that frightened her more than panic would have, “you crossed into my world.”
The lock clicked.
Someone outside tried the door.
“Elena,” a voice called softly.
Her breath stopped.
Because the voice did not belong to a bodyguard.
It belonged to her dead husband.
PART 3
For three months, Elena had dreamed of Adrian’s voice.
Sometimes it came from the shower steam. Sometimes from the closed nursery. Sometimes from the empty side of the bed, whispering her name just as she woke.
But grief had a texture.
This was different.
This voice had breath in it.
“Elena,” Adrian called again through the door. “Open it.”
Matteo’s eyes snapped to her.
Elena could not move.
Her husband had died in a car explosion outside their apartment building. The police had said the blast was connected to organized crime. Wrong place, wrong time. A tragic accident. Their twin sons had been inside the car with him because Adrian had insisted on taking them for a drive so Elena could sleep.
There had been no bodies she was allowed to see.
Only sealed coffins.
Only ashes.
Only a funeral where Matteo Volkov’s name had been whispered by mourners who thought she could not hear.
Now the dead man stood outside the door of a mafia boss’s private jet, asking her to let him in.
Matteo lifted the gun and aimed at the door.
“Who is he?” he demanded silently, mouthing the words.
Elena’s lips trembled.
“My husband.”
Something savage passed across Matteo’s face.
Outside, Adrian sighed.
“I know you’re scared. But you need to listen to me. Volkov killed our boys.”
Elena flinched so hard Sofia whimpered.
Matteo did not look away from the door.
“He’s lying,” he said.
“You don’t know that,” Elena whispered.
“I know every death I ordered.”
The words were monstrous.
Worse, they sounded true.
Adrian’s voice came again, warmer now, intimate, exactly as it had been on mornings when he made coffee and kissed the back of her neck.
“Baby, I survived. I had to disappear. Volkov’s people were watching us. I tried to come back for you, but it wasn’t safe. Open the door and I’ll explain everything.”
Elena’s soul reached for him.
Her body did too.
For one unbearable second, she wanted to believe. She wanted her grief undone. She wanted the funeral erased, the closed nursery reopened, the twins asleep in their cribs, Adrian alive and sorry and holding her like the last three months had been a nightmare.
Then Sofia’s tiny fingers curled around Elena’s blouse.
And Elena remembered something.
Adrian had never called her baby.
Not once in seven years.
He said darling when he wanted forgiveness. Lena when he wanted something. My girl when he wanted to charm strangers.
But never baby.
Elena looked at Matteo.
“He’s not here for me,” she whispered.
Matteo’s eyes sharpened.
“He’s here for Sofia.”
The door handle turned again.
Adrian’s voice hardened, just slightly.
“Elena, don’t make me beg.”
There was the man she knew.
The softness peeled back. The command beneath it.
Elena’s grief did not vanish. It burned into something brighter.
She stood slowly, Sofia against her chest.
Matteo shook his head once, warning her not to speak.
But Elena had spent three months being buried alive by lies. She was done being quiet.
“Where are my sons?” she called.
Silence.
Then Adrian said, “They’re gone.”
“How do you know?”
A pause.
Too long.
Matteo’s gaze flicked toward her, understanding blooming coldly.
Elena’s voice steadied.
“How do you know they’re gone if you weren’t there after the explosion?”
Outside the door, Adrian stopped pretending.