Chapter 3 - The Fortress on the Lake
The Volkov Estate was not a house. It was a centuries-old limestone fortress situated on twelve secluded acres along the rocky cliffs of Lake Michigan, north of the city.
Surrounded by ten-foot wrought-iron fences topped with razor wire, infrared security cameras, and armed guards patrolling with Belgian Malinois attack dogs, it felt less like a residential home and more like a high-security sovereign territory.
When Nikolai guided me through the massive carved oak doors of the main hall, I felt completely out of my element. My wet sneakers squeaked against polished Italian marble. My faded denim jacket and work jeans looked absurd beneath crystal chandeliers that looked like they belonged in the Palace of Versailles.
"Miss Sarah," a soft, warm voice called out.
An elderly woman in a crisp navy dress stepped down the grand sweeping staircase. Her hair was silver, pulled into an elegant bun, and her eyes held a sharp, motherly intelligence.
"I am Vera," she said, offering a gentle smile as she approached me. "Mr. Volkov’s housekeeper. Please, give me your coat. You look exhausted."
"I... thank you," I stammered, letting her take my damp jacket. "I really shouldn't be here. I have a diner to open at 6:00 AM—"
"The diner is currently being fitted with reinforced ballistic glass windows and a new steel rear door, Miss Sarah," a voice echoed from the upper landing.
I looked up.
Mikhail Volkov descended the stairs slowly. He had discarded his heavy overcoat and suit jacket, wearing a crisp white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing thick, corded muscle and faint silver scars along his left wrist. He held a glass of dark amber whiskey in his right hand.
He looked down at me, his icy blue gaze softened just a fraction.
"Your cook, Joe, has been provided with three temporary kitchen assistants," Volkov said as he reached the foot of the stairs. "The diner will open on time. And any customer who enters tomorrow will find that the prices have been halved—courtesy of a anonymous benefactor."
"You don't have to do all this, Mr. Volkov," I said, holding the mahogany box tightly against my chest. "I just wanted to go home."
"This is the safest place in Illinois tonight, Sarah," he said softly, using my first name for the first time without the formal title. "The O'Malley family made a desperate move tonight. They are crumbling, and desperate men strike blindly. Until I remove the threat permanently, you remain under my roof."
Before I could protest, a small figure came hurtling down the hallway from the side wing.
"Sarah!"
Misha, now dressed in cozy flannel pajamas, sprinted across the marble floor and threw his arms around my waist, burying his face in my shirt.
The instinct to protect took over completely. I instantly dropped to my knees, wrapping my arms around the little boy, holding him tight.
"Hey, buddy," I whispered, smiling as I pulled back to check his face. "Are you okay? Did you get some sleep?"
"I couldn't sleep," Misha said, pointing toward a massive room down the hall filled with towering floor-to-ceiling rosewood bookshelves and a roaring marble fireplace. "Papa was working, and the storm was making noises."
"He stayed awake waiting for news of your diner," Volkov added smoothly, leaning against the banister, watching us with an unreadable expression. "He refused to go to bed until Nikolai confirmed you were safe."
My heart did a strange, uncomfortable flutter in my chest. I looked up at the fearsome crime lord standing above us. In the papers, he was described as a cold-blooded monster who ruled the docks with an iron fist. But standing here, watching the way his eyes lingered on his son, I saw a man who was desperately lonely, carrying the terrifying weight of an empire on his shoulders.
"Vera," Volkov commanded softly. "Show Sarah to the East Suite. Ensure she has everything she needs."
"Of course, Mr. Volkov," Vera bowed her head gently.
Misha let go of my waist, looking up at me with hopeful hazel eyes. "Will you make pancakes again tomorrow, Sarah? Real ones? Not the ones the chef makes with the green stuff inside?"
I laughed—a genuine, warm laugh that seemed to echo through the grand, quiet hall.
"If your dad lets me into the kitchen, kiddo," I said, bopping his small nose with my finger, "I'll make you a stack as tall as this house."
May you like
Mikhail Volkov’s gaze locked onto mine as I stood up. The ice in his eyes seemed to thaw just a little bit more.
"The kitchen is yours, Sarah," Volkov said softly. "Just as long as you stay long enough to eat them with us."
