The cold, brutal reality of Italy was a million miles away. We stepped off the private jet and onto the pristine tarmac of Vladimir's private hangar, and a different kind of silence settled over me. It was the silence of a well-oiled machine, of a world that was functioning exactly as it should. The air, crisp and cold, was a welcome shock to my system after the suffocating heat of my family's rage. I was home. The thought, once a prison, was now a shield.
Vladimir’s men were lined up in two perfect rows, their faces impassive, their bodies a silent, terrifying wall of protection. They bowed in unison as we walked past, their respect a tangible thing in the frigid air. Vladimir's hand, so warm and solid, was wrapped around mine, his grip a silent promise. He led me to a black bulletproof
