Chapter 4

I couldn't stop shaking.

It had been hours since the attack. Hours since they'd carried Rocco out, bleeding. Hours since Father had grabbed my face and demanded answers I couldn't give.

Now I sat in the private parlor, hands folded tight in my lap, staring at nothing.

The bruise on my temple throbbed. A dull, insistent ache that wouldn't let me forget.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to push the memories away.

The door opened.

Rocco stepped inside, his right arm in a sling, face still pale from blood loss. He looked at me, then away quickly.

"He's here," Rocco said quietly. "The new man."

My stomach dropped.

"Your father wants you downstairs. In the main parlor."

I stood on shaking legs and followed him out.

The atmosphere in the house had changed.

The usual background noise—staff moving through hallways, distant conversations, the hum of daily life—had vanished.

The silence was heavy. Unnatural.

Like the air before a storm.

Rocco stopped outside the parlor doors. He didn't look at me.

"He's..." Rocco hesitated. "He's different. Just—do what he says. Don't argue."

Then he pushed the doors open.

Father stood in the center of the room, and he was smiling.

Not the cold, cruel smile I knew. The other one. The warm, loving, proud father smile he wore for the world.

"Ah, Luna! Cara mia, come in, come in."

He gestured me forward, voice dripping with affection.

I stepped inside slowly, every instinct screaming at me to run.

That's when I saw him.

The man standing beside my father.

Tall. Impossibly broad. Dressed in a black suit that looked tailored with surgical precision. He stood perfectly still, hands loose at his sides, but there was something about the way he held himself—

Controlled violence.

That's what it felt like. Like he was a weapon someone had temporarily set down.

His face was hard. Brutal. Handsome in a way that didn't invite warmth. Sharp jaw. Severe mouth.

And his eyes—

Blue. Cold. Piercing.

They swept over me once, cataloging everything. The bruise on my temple. The tremor in my hands. The way I couldn't quite meet his gaze.

Father walked over and put his hand on my shoulder—gentle, affectionate, a perfect performance.

"Mio tesoro," he said warmly. "This is Volkov. He's going to be protecting you from now on. We're very fortunate he agreed to come on such short notice."

He looked at the man. "Volkov, this is my daughter, Luna. She's... delicate. Sensitive. The light of my life."

Father's fingers squeezed my shoulder—just hard enough to hurt.

"She's been through so much. I need you to keep her safe. She's all I have."

The lie was so smooth, so convincing, I almost believed it myself.

Volkov said nothing. He just looked at me.

Then he spoke.

"Understood, Don Vitiello."

The sound—

Low. Deep. Controlled.

Something cold flickered through me.

For a split second, I saw it—the masked man, the knife, the library—

Look at me.

I froze.

My breath caught.

But then Father was talking, pulling my attention, and the moment shattered.

No. I'm losing my mind. I was terrified. I couldn't even think straight.

I forced myself to breathe.

"I will ensure her safety," Volkov said. His voice was flat. Professional. "What are the current threat parameters?"

Father launched into an explanation—the warehouse attack, yesterday's breach, the men who'd gotten inside.

I tried to focus on his words, tried to ground myself.

I'm just scared. That's all. Just scared.

Volkov's gaze flicked back to me. Just for a second.

Our eyes met.

And something cold slithered down my spine.

"She doesn't speak," Father was saying. "But she understands everything. She's very obedient."

"Noted," Volkov said.

He took a single step toward me.

I flinched.

He stopped.

His head tilted slightly—barely noticeable. Like he was filing that reaction away.

"I will need full access," Volkov said, turning back to Father. "Her schedule. Her routines. Security protocols. Floor plans."

"Of course," Father said quickly. "Rocco will provide everything. He'll brief you fully."

Volkov gave a minimal nod.

Then he looked at me again.

"I will be monitoring all movement," he said. His voice was directed at Father, but his eyes stayed locked on mine. "No exceptions. Where she goes, I go."

Father beamed. "Excellent. That's exactly what I need."

Volkov held my gaze for one more long, suffocating moment.

Then he turned and walked toward the door.

"Rocco," he said without looking back. "Briefing. Now."

Rocco scrambled to follow him out, awkward with his injured arm.

The door closed.

Father's smile vanished instantly.

He released my shoulder and walked to the liquor cabinet, pouring himself a drink.

"He's the best," Father said quietly. "Worth every cent." He took a long drink. "You will obey him, Luna. Completely. Do you understand?"

I nodded.

"Good." He set the glass down. "Now go to your room. Stay there until dinner."

I fled.

I made it to my room and locked the door behind me, pressing my back against the wood.

My whole body was shaking.

I walked to the window, wrapping my arms around myself.

What's wrong with me?

For just a second, when he'd spoken—

I'd thought—

But no. That was insane.

The masked man had gray eyes. Maybe. I couldn't even remember clearly. I'd been crying, panicking, couldn't see anything through the fear.

And this man's eyes were blue.

Different.

I pressed my hands to my face.

I'm losing my mind. The attack, the fear—it's making me see things that aren't there.

But the feeling wouldn't go away.

That cold, creeping sense that something was wrong.

I sank to the floor, pulling my knees to my chest.

The man Father hired to protect me...

made me feel like I was in more danger than ever.