Page 163 of Vicious Games

“Home sweet home,” Konstantin mutters without enthusiasm.

The gates open slowly, almost ominously, and the limo rolls forward along a long, curving driveway lined with massive evergreens and stone statues that watch us like sentinels. The estate itself rises in the distance—a sprawling, modernized fortress. Steel. Glass. Stone. It’s like a mansion and a military compound fucked and birthed this very expensive baby.

We drive another five minutes through manicured grounds, past fountains and towering hedges, until we stop in front of the main house—a structure that puts Uncle Sal’s entire home to shame. It’s opulent in a cold, calculated way. A home built for power, not comfort.

Konstantin gets out first. Kirill follows, careful as he carries Stella in his arms like she’s precious.

“Frankie, baby, you need to wake up now,” I whisper, kissing her temple and keeping my voice steady, trying to put on a brave face for her, even if I’m not feeling very heroic right now.

A hero would not have put the woman he loves and his beloved sister in such jeopardy.

She stirs with a soft yawn, long lashes fluttering as she blinks up at me. “Where are we?”

“Not sure yet,” I murmur, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “But whatever happens next, I’m not leaving your side. I’ll protect you.”

She gives me a small, sleepy smile before straightening up and stepping out of the car.

A blond man steps out of the mansion and heads straight toward us, but his eyes are locked solely on Frankie. He’s broad-shouldered and effortlessly imposing, his features unmistakably similar to Kirill’s and Kostya’s—clearly cut from the same cloth. Older than Kostya by at least a decade, with pale blond hair, ice-blue eyes, and a face like carved stone, he radiates authority without even trying, making him the one who is obviously in charge here.

“Chyort!”he mutters in Russian, staring at her like he’s seen a ghost.

“I know, right? Fucking uncanny,” Kostya grins from ear to ear.

Frankie shifts nervously under the attention, trying not to fidget.

“Ty zdes’. Ty deystvitel’no zdes’. Ty vyglyadish’ toch’-v-toch’ kak ona,” the man mutters, eyes wide.

“I’m…sorry. I… um… I don’t speak Russian,” Frankie replies, clearly thrown.

“Of course not,” he says, his gaze beaming brightly, only to harden when they shift to me. “And you must be Luciano Romano,” he says with an obvious snarl.

“And you are?”

“Aleksandr Petrov.”

The name means nothing to me, and from his angry expression, that pisses him off.

“He’s still in high school, Sasha. He’s not made yet,” Kostya calls over his shoulder as he heads inside. “Lighten the fuck up, dude. Anyway, I’m going to take a nap. Call me when dinner is ready.”

Aleksandr ignores him and turns to Kirill. “Dr. Sokolov is upstairs waiting. Go.”

Kirill nods and vanishes into the house with Stella in his arms.

“Come,” Aleksandr says to us. “I’ll show you to your rooms.”

Sensing we don’t have a choice in the matter, we follow him inside. Frankie grips my hand tight, and I squeeze it back. Inside, the mansion is even more surreal. The foyer is massive, crowned with chandeliers that sparkle like crushed diamonds. Original Picassos and Rembrandts hang on the walls—real ones, if I had to guess. Sculptures, marble columns, gold-accented trim – fuck, even the air smells expensive.

But Frankie doesn’t seem to pay any attention to her surroundings, her thoughts fixed on one thing and one thing only.

“Kirill said you have information about my parents,” she says, keeping her voice firm and steady. “I’m not going anywhere until someone tells me what the hell is going on.”

Aleksandr turns slowly. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just walks up to her and studies her like she’s an answer to a riddle he thought unsolvable.

“You’ve had a long trip. Rest. Clean up. Eat. Then we’ll talk.”

Her hands ball into fists, not satisfied with his deflection, and frankly, neither am I.

Aleksandr notices her quiet rage and then, unexpectedly, reaches out and places a hand on her cheek.

---