Then came the wail. It tore from Lily’s throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated shock and pain that finally snapped the invisible strings holding me in place. I moved before conscious thought caught up with my body.

The convoy pulled into the heated subterranean garage. Before the vehicle even came to a complete stop, the doors were opened by my father’s men.

I stepped out, the crisp mountain air biting at my face, holding Lily tight.

“Welcome home, Mila Nikolaevna,” a familiar voice echoed.

Standing by the elevator bank was Viktor, my father’s second-in-command. He was a mountain of a man, his left eye milky white from an old knife wound, wearing his customary tailored suit. He bowed his head deeply.

“Hello, Viktor,” I said, a genuine, albeit tired, smile touching my lips. “It’s been a long time.”

“Too long, little bird,” he rumbled, stepping forward to press a massive, calloused hand gently against Lily’s back. “Oksana has prepared your old rooms. She is threatening to feed everyone to the dogs if the child is not brought up to a warm bed immediately.”

I felt a knot in my chest loosen at the mention of Oksana, the woman who had essentially raised me after my mother’s passing. We took the private elevator up to the residential wing. When the polished steel doors parted, Oksana was waiting. She was a diminutive, fiercely protective Ukrainian woman who immediately burst into a flurry of tears and scolding Russian, pulling me into a bone-crushing hug before expertly prying the sleeping Lily from my arms.

“Look at her, thin as a rail, both of you,” Oksana muttered, whisking Lily down the hall toward my old childhood suite. “Those Americans feed you nothing but grass and water. Come, come. Sleep now. Vengeance tomorrow.”

My father paused at the door of his study, turning to me. “Rest, Mila. When you wake, the world will be different.”

I didn’t doubt him. I walked down the long, carpeted corridor, trailing my hand along the heavy silk wallpaper. The walls were lined with classical art, interspersed with the subtle, high-tech security panels that managed the fortress.

When I entered my bedroom, I stopped. It was exactly as I had left it five years ago. The dark mahogany furniture, the heavy velvet drapes, the shelves lined with Russian literature and art history texts. Oksana had already tucked Lily into the massive king-sized bed, drawing the heavy comforter up to her chin.

I walked into the adjoining dressing room and looked at myself in the floor-to-length mirror. I was wearing a beige trench coat over a sensible, knee-length navy dress. A string of modest pearls—a gift from Mark’s mother that I was required to wear to family functions—rested against my collarbone.

With a sudden, violent surge of disgust, I reached up and yanked the necklace. The silk thread snapped. The pearls scattered across the hardwood floor, sounding like tiny hail stones. I stripped off the beige coat, the sensible dress, the uncomfortable shapewear designed to make me look ‘presentable’ to polite society. I left them in a heap on the floor, a discarded skin.

I showered until the water ran cold, scrubbing the scent of the Peterson house from my skin. When I emerged, I wrapped myself in a heavy silk robe I found in the back of the closet, entirely black.

I climbed into bed beside my daughter. For the first time in five years, I didn’t lock the bedroom door. Here, surrounded by an army of men who would die before letting a stranger cross the threshold, I finally closed my eyes and slept a dreamless, heavy sleep.

I woke to the smell of strong black tea and freshly baked blini. Sunlight was streaming through the reinforced windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.

Lily was already awake, sitting cross-legged at the small breakfast table by the window, happily devouring a plate of Oksana’s cooking while the older woman brushed her hair.

“Mommy!” Lily chirped, her mouth half-full. “Oksana says we can go see the horses later! There are horses here!”

“Are there?” I asked, walking over and kissing the top of her head. I examined her cheek. The redness was mostly gone, leaving only a faint yellowish bruise. “You like it here?”

“It’s like a castle,” Lily said, her eyes wide with wonder. “And the men outside have big coats.”

I smiled, meeting Oksana’s eyes over Lily’s head. Oksana gave a curt nod, a silent assurance that the child was unbothered by the sudden upheaval. Children were remarkably adaptable, especially when they felt entirely safe. And in this house, Lily was the most protected child on the eastern seaboard.

I retreated to the dressing room. Oksana had cleared out my suburban clothes while I slept. In their place hung my old wardrobe. Sleek, tailored trousers, silk blouses, cashmere sweaters in shades of charcoal, emerald, and midnight blue. I dressed in a pair of high-waisted black trousers and a dark green silk shirt, sliding my feet into comfortable leather loafers. I tied my hair back into a severe, practical knot.

When I walked downstairs, the atmosphere of the house was humming with quiet, lethal efficiency. Men in suits moved through the corridors with purpose, carrying tablets and encrypted phones. They nodded respectfully as I passed, their eyes darting to the floor.

I found my father in the conservatory, a massive glass-enclosed room overlooking the snow-dusted valley below. He was sitting at a glass table, sipping espresso, a tablet resting in front of him. Viktor stood by the door, arms crossed.

“Good morning,” I said, taking the seat across from him.

A maid appeared instantly, pouring me a cup of black tea and vanishing just as quickly.

“Did you sleep well?” my father asked, setting his espresso down.

“Like the dead. What is the status, Papa?”

My father tapped the screen of the tablet and slid it across the glass table toward me. “As promised. By 9:00 AM this morning, the financial markets opened. The shell corporation we used to absorb Peterson Holdings executed a massive liquidation of their assets. Their stock plummeted by eighty percent in the first hour of trading.”