Chapter 5

Dinner was supposed to be at seven.

I arrived at six fifty-five, dressed in the pale blue silk dress Father had laid out on my bed. My hands shook as I smoothed the fabric over my lap, sitting in my usual seat at the long mahogany table.

The dining hall was enormous. A massive crystal chandelier hung overhead, casting fractured light across the white tablecloth, the gold-rimmed plates, the untouched silverware.

And in the corner, standing like a statue carved from shadow, was Volkov.

He'd positioned himself near the main exit. Arms loose at his sides. Feet shoulder-width apart. His blue eyes swept the room once, cataloging every entrance, every window, every person.

Then they landed on me.

I looked down immediately, pulse spiking.

He didn't move. Didn't speak. But I felt his gaze like weight pressing down on my shoulders.

He's watching. Always watching.

Father entered a moment later, already talking, his voice booming and cheerful.

"Ah, Luna! Punctual as always. What a good girl." He kissed the top of my head as he passed, the gesture performative, meant for Volkov's eyes.

He sat at the head of the table and launched into a story about a recent business deal. His voice filled the cavernous space, loud and expansive, the performance of a loving, proud father.

I stared at my plate. The food arrived, perfectly arranged, and I couldn't bring myself to touch it. My stomach twisted too tight.

Dante entered last.

He took his usual seat to Father's left, directly across from me. His eyes found mine immediately, and his mouth curved into a slow, cold smile.

I looked away.

"Volkov," Father said suddenly, gesturing toward the silent figure in the corner. "You must eat. There's no need to stand the entire evening."

"I'm fine, Don Vitiello," Volkov said.

His voice was low. Controlled. It sent a shiver through me that I couldn't explain.

Father chuckled. "Dedication. I knew I made the right choice."

He returned to his story, something about shipments and territories. I wasn't listening. I couldn't focus on anything except the suffocating awareness that Volkov was still watching me.

Not constantly. But enough.

Every few minutes, his gaze would sweep over me. Clinical. Detached. Like I was a problem he was monitoring for changes.

I forced myself to take a bite of food. It tasted like ash.

Dante leaned back in his chair, swirling wine in his glass. He was quiet tonight. Too quiet.

Then I saw his hand move.

Slowly. Deliberately.

He reached across the table toward the bread knife sitting beside my plate.

He didn't need it. His own knife was right in front of him.

This wasn't about the knife.

My breath caught. My hands froze on my lap.

No. Please, no.

Dante's fingers stretched closer, his smile widening as he watched my face.

He wanted me to flinch. Wanted me to react. Wanted to send that familiar message: I can reach you anytime I want.

I couldn't move. My body locked up, the same paralyzing terror that had stolen my voice now stealing my ability to pull away.

His fingers were inches from the knife now.

Then the air changed.

It was subtle. A shift in pressure. A coldness that hadn't been there a second ago.

I glanced toward the corner.

Volkov hadn't moved. Not visibly. But something about his posture had changed. His weight had shifted. His head tilted just slightly.

And his eyes were locked on Dante.

Not angry. Not threatening.

Just… watching.

Dante felt it too. I saw his hand stop mid-reach, fingers hovering above the tablecloth.

The smile slipped from his face.

Volkov didn't say anything. Didn't move closer. Didn't make a sound.

But the message was clear.

Stop.

Dante's jaw clenched. His hand hovered there for another agonizing second.

Then he pulled it back slowly, casually, like he'd never intended to reach for the knife at all.

He picked up his wine glass and took a long drink, his gaze sliding away from mine.

I sat frozen, heart hammering against my ribs.

He stopped him.

Volkov's attention shifted back to the room, his vigil unbroken. He showed no reaction. No acknowledgment of what had just happened.

Like it was nothing.

But for me, it was everything.

I'd spent my entire life surrounded by men like Dante. Men who took pleasure in small cruelties. Men who pushed boundaries just to watch me break.

And no one ever stopped them.

Until now.

I didn't understand it. Volkov wasn't kind. I could see that in his cold, unreadable eyes. He didn't care about me. I was a job. A contract. Property to be guarded.

But he'd stopped Dante anyway.

Why?

Father continued talking, oblivious to the tension that had just crackled across the table. He was halfway through another story now, gesturing with his fork.

I tried to eat. Forced another bite down.

But my hands were still shaking.

And every time I glanced toward the corner, Volkov was there.

Silent. Watchful. Unreadable.

The man who terrified me.

The man who had just protected me.

I didn't know which scared me more.

Dinner ended an hour later.

Father stood, clapping Dante on the shoulder. "Excellent meal. Volkov, I trust everything was satisfactory?"

"Yes, Don Vitiello."

"Good, good. Luna, cara, you may go to your room now. Get some rest."

I stood immediately, grateful for the dismissal.

But as I moved toward the door, Volkov stepped forward.

"I'll escort her."

Father waved a hand. "Of course. Protocol."

Volkov fell into step behind me as I left the dining hall.

I could feel him there. Close but not touching. Silent but present.

We walked through the long corridor toward the east wing. My footsteps echoed on the marble. His made no sound at all.

When we reached my door, I reached for the handle.

"Stop."

The word was cold. Flat. A command, not a request.

I froze, hand hovering inches from the doorknob.

Volkov moved past me, his presence overwhelming in the narrow hallway. He pushed the door open himself and stepped inside.

I stood in the doorway, watching as he moved through my room with mechanical efficiency. He checked the windows. The closet. The bathroom. Behind the curtains.

Every movement was precise. Clinical.

After thirty seconds, he returned to the doorway.

"Clear." His eyes swept over me once. "Lock the door when I leave. Don't open it for anyone except your father or myself."

It wasn't concern in his voice. Just protocol.

"Understood?"

I nodded quickly.

He stepped past me into the hallway without another word.

I watched him walk away, his footsteps silent, his broad frame disappearing into the shadows at the end of the corridor.

Then I stepped inside and locked the door behind me.

I leaned against it, sliding down to the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees.

He stopped Dante.

But not because he cared.

Because Dante had violated protocol. Had created instability.

I was property. Valuable property.

And Volkov was the alarm system.

Cold. Efficient. Unchallengeable.

I pulled my knees tighter to my chest.

For the first time in my life, someone had stopped the wolves.

But I didn't know if that made me safer.

Or if it just meant the biggest wolf was the one guarding the door.