Chapter 7

The afternoon settled over the Vitiello mansion like a shroud, heavy and silent. Luna had been confined to the small, formal library adjoining the Don’s study for hours, a direct result of Volkov’s newly imposed protocol. The room, usually a comfort, felt exposed, a waiting room for the next, inevitable command. Volkov did not sit, did not read, and did not occupy himself with any task other than absolute vigilance. He stood near the entrance, a fortress of quiet authority, his stillness a deliberate, terrifying display of patience.

Luna watched him from the periphery of her vision, her body locked into a state of hyper-awareness. The crushing fear from the morning’s incident, the sound of the shattering porcelain and the cold, dominant rumble of his voice, was still sharp in her memory. She was realizing, with bone-deep clarity, that her new protector was a danger far more structured and permanent than the volatile, unpredictable malice of Dante. Dante inflicted cruelty for pleasure; Volkov inflicted control as a profession.

To cope, Luna tried to engage in a ritual of normalcy. She walked to the bookshelves, running her fingers over the leather spines, attempting to choose a volume. It was a simple movement, yet it felt like an enormous, rebellious effort under his scrutiny. She registered the slight shift in the air behind her, the barely perceptible tension in Volkov’s stance, confirming that even this mundane movement was logged and assessed.

He did not stop her. His silence gave permission, but his vigilance maintained the threat.

Luna finally pulled out an antique volume of poetry, a weightless distraction. She returned to the oversized leather chair, sinking deep into the cushion, attempting to shrink into the fabric. She opened the book, but the words swam, indistinct. She wasn't reading; she was waiting. Her focus was anchored entirely on the imposing figure across the room.

Volkov was an expert in psychological containment. His silence was a weapon designed to erode the nerves. He never fidgeted. He never broke his intense, unreadable gaze when he chose to focus on her. His face remained a hardened, severe mask, handsome in a brutal way that was utterly devoid of human softness. To Luna, his cold eyes saw only her compliance, her value as an asset, and the necessity of his protocol.

The only way she could communicate was through her stillness, and she worked relentlessly to make her stillness perfect, fearing that any uncontrolled tremor or sigh might trigger the promised "Correction."

The Don’s study door finally opened, and Don Dario Vitiello emerged, followed by Dante Bellomo. The sight of Dante, so soon after the night before and the morning's disgrace, sent a fresh wave of paralyzing fear through Luna. She squeezed her eyes shut for a brief second, trying to regain her composure, then forced them open.

Don Dario was smiling broadly, the flawless, terrifying mask of the doting father was firmly in place. "Ah, my beautiful, patient Luna," he cooed, walking over and placing a heavy, ringed hand on her shoulder. The touch was possessive, not affectionate, sending a familiar cold dread through her. "You wait so nicely. Volkov, you are truly a marvel of efficiency. The girl hasn't moved a muscle."

Volkov gave a minuscule nod, his face impassive. He took a single, slow step toward the group, shortening the distance just enough to dominate the space around the Don and Luna.

Dante, still smarting from the morning’s public check, saw his chance. He needed to reassert his psychological control over Luna, the one person in the house whose fear he could still reliably provoke. He positioned himself slightly behind the Don, out of Volkov’s direct line of sight, and lowered his voice just enough to be heard only by Luna.

"The kitchen girl is gone, little doll," Dante murmured, his voice laced with venom, confirming the consequence of the morning's event. "Volkov doesn't allow mistakes. You better not make any, preparing for Moretti."

The subtle, cutting cruelty was designed to confirm that Volkov was ultimately responsible for the pervasive terror in the house, linking the protector's rigid protocol to the Don's atmosphere of malice.

Luna’s breath hitched, the silent gasp of pure fear. The pressure in her throat intensified, a painful, physical chokehold that accompanied all confrontations with Dante. She desperately wanted to flinch, to pull away from her father’s controlling grip, but the image of Volkov’s cold, demanding face held her perfectly still. She could not react without breaking protocol.

Volkov’s eyes, however, were not on the conversation. They were sweeping the high windows, assessing the rooflines of the neighboring buildings. He appeared utterly focused on external security.

Yet, as Dante finished his quiet, hateful threat, Volkov shifted again. It was a minor movement, a fraction of his left foot repositioning, the subtle rotation of his massive shoulders. His head remained fixed on the windows, but the sheer presence he projected shifted instantly, becoming a dense, silent wall of force that pushed back against Dante’s position.

It was an impossible act of peripheral intimidation. Volkov had not looked at Dante, yet Dante felt the crushing, immediate warning. The protector's protocol had flagged the interaction as a disruptive variable, and the containment was instantly reinforced.

Dante’s sneer vanished. He coughed, suddenly uncomfortable, and stepped back sharply, retreating into the shadow of the doorway. He broke the silence only to address the Don on an unrelated business matter, his voice now clipped and professional, stripped of all venom. He had been checked again, not by an order, but by the cold, overwhelming calculus of Volkov’s controlled space.

Don Dario, oblivious to the invisible warfare, patted Luna’s shoulder and beamed at Volkov. "See, Volkov? My angel is perfectly obedient. She is accustomed to structure."

Luna offered the tiny, tight half-smile that was her only permitted response. But internally, the psychological conflict was agonizing. Volkov had saved her from Dante’s touch last night; he had just saved her from Dante's psychological cruelty moments ago. Yet, he was the same man who had destroyed an innocent woman's life with a single, cold threat.

She realized the truth of her terrifying situation: Volkov was a machine of protocol. He protected her not out of any human concern, but because she was an asset that needed to be delivered intact for the merger. Her safety was simply a function of his contract. And in that terrifying, inhuman fact, Luna found a desperate, fragile measure of stability. He would protect her from any threat, internal or external, that risked damaging the Don's property. The thought twisted her stomach with shame and confusion, but the sheer predictability of his brutal dominance was the only consistent thing in her chaotic world.

She looked up, finally allowing her eyes to meet Volkov’s. His gaze was momentarily fixed on her, cold, assessing, and utterly blank. He logged her submission, her stillness, and the lack of visible distress.

She quickly dropped her eyes, her heart hammering. The strange, confusing intervention of the bodyguard, the cold man who was the new source of her terror and her unexpected security, was the only focus of her survival now. She needed him to claim the space around her, to protect her, even if he was a monster.