The fragile peace with Irina had lasted less than twelve hours. The mansion, which I had just begun to feel was a sanctuary, shuddered under the sudden, violent resurgence of war.
It started not with gunfire, but with a sound far more terrifying: the high, insistent chime of Vladimir’s private, red-level communication line. It was a sound reserved for collapse.
I was in the library, tracing the spine of a Russian novel, trying to pretend the world wasn't burning. Vladimir was across the room, reviewing schematics of his new security fortifications. He snatched the phone up on the second ring, his eyes already narrowed with cold suspicion.
“Volkov.” His voice was a whip-c***k of command.
I watched his face, and in the space of thirty seconds, I saw the blood drain away, replaced by a te
