Page 38 of Crimson Sin
“One of them.”
She turns to look at me, studying my profile as the Chicago skyline whizzes past the tinted windows. “Are there any safe parts?”
The question surprises me. Safe parts. As if I'm a minefield with paths that won't explode under pressure.
“You'll have to tell me,” I admit.
Forty minutes later, the house comes into view through the bulletproof glass, my private mansion in Lake Forest. It rises like a monolith of steel and glass, surrounded by electronic gates and motion sensors buried in manicured lawns. No history lives here. No warmth. It was built for function, not comfort. A fortress.
The architecture is modern and cold, with all clean lines and sharp angles designed to intimidate rather than welcome. Every window is bulletproof, every door reinforced steel. The landscaping is beautiful but sterile, meticulously maintained by professionals who come and go without ever setting foot inside the house.
Naomi remains quiet as we pull up the long drive, but I can feel the tension radiating from her like heat. When we step inside and the heavy door seals behind us, her composure finally cracks.
“This place feels like a prison.”
She's not wrong. The foyer stretches before us like a cathedral of paranoia, all marble and metal and the subtle hum of security systems that never sleep. Motion detectors track our movement, cameras record our every breath, and somewhere in the walls, sensors monitor everything from air quality to seismic activity.
“It's protection,” I reply, though the words taste hollow even to me.
“From what? Or who?”
“From everyone. Including Viktor.”
I walk her through the main hall, past reinforced windows that could withstand a car bomb and art cases displaying pieces worth millions of dollars. Security cameras blink from every corner like electronic eyes, recording, analyzing, and judging. Her eyes dart around, absorbing everything and cataloging the evidence of just how deeply my paranoia runs.
“You don't trust anyone, do you?” she asks.
The observation stings because it's true. In my world, the people closest to you are often the ones most likely to put a knife in your back. Family betrays family. Friends sell friends. The only person you can truly rely on is yourself.
“I can't afford to,” I say evenly.
She follows me into the sunken living room, her footsteps muffled by the plush carpet. The space is sleek and modern, featuring black leather and stainless steel, designed by a woman who understood that beauty and function could coexist without compromising warmth. There's no trace of life here. No flowers. No books. No photographs or personal mementos. Just the cold aesthetic of control.
Naomi drops onto the edge of the sofa, her posture defeated. The ivory dress that looked so perfect this morning is wrinkled now, stained with dust and fear. She looks small in this vast room, and fragile against the backdrop of wealth and power that defines my existence.
“I want to go home,” she whispers.
The words hit me harder than they should. Home. To her, that means the tiny apartment she shares with Charlotte, the life where her biggest worry was paying rent and her biggest excitement was a promotion at work. To me, home has alwaysbeen wherever I could best control my environment, best protect what's mine.
“That's not possible.”
Her head snaps up, fire replacing the defeat in her eyes. “You don't get to keep me here,” she snaps, jabbing a finger in my direction.
“I'm not keeping you. I'm protecting you.”
“There's a difference?” The challenge in her voice reminds me why I was drawn to her in the first place. She doesn't cower or break easily. Even terrified and overwhelmed, she fights back.
“There is when my enemies are trying to put bullets in your back.”
She flinches, and I hate that I'm the one who put that fear in her eyes. I hate even more that I can't fix it or make this world safer for her simply by wanting it to be so.
“Do you think Viktor did this?” she probes.
“I don't think. I know,” I hiss.
The certainty in my voice comes from years of reading the chess board and understanding how power moves and money flows in the shadows of legitimate business. Viktor has been planning this for months, maybe years. The marriage was just the catalyst he needed to make his move.
“Why? Because of you? Or because of me?” she asks, eyes narrowing.
