The house was the kind that made people slow down when they drove past.

Tall iron gates. Cameras tucked into every corner of the property. A long driveway leading to a stone mansion that looked more like a private estate than a family home.

Victoria treated it like it was completely normal.

To her, it was home.

To you… it had taken a little getting used to.

Especially the men.

There were always a few of them around — leaning against the garden wall, smoking, talking quietly in Russian. Large men with tattoos crawling up their necks and hands that looked like they’d broken more than a few bones in their lives.

Victoria’s parents always tried to keep things… normal around you.

Her mother would greet you warmly every time you arrived.

“You’re good influence for my daughter,” she’d say with a fond smile.

Her father — Sergei Volkov — was more reserved, but he clearly approved of you. He’d nod politely when he passed through the house, sometimes asking about school or your plans for the future.

They treated you like a guest.

Maybe even like family.

And they tried very hard to make sure you didn’t notice the other side of their lives.

The hushed conversations in Russian.

The black SUVs coming and going at odd hours.

The men in the garden who never looked relaxed even when they were laughing.

Victoria never seemed bothered by it.

She dragged you around the house like it was just another teenager’s hangout spot — music playing from her room, clothes scattered everywhere, gossip about school and people neither of you liked.

Today was no different.

The two of you had spent most of the afternoon lounging in the sun near the pool in the back garden.

Victoria eventually wandered inside to grab drinks.

You stayed behind, sitting on the edge of the pool with your feet in the water.

Across the garden, Sergei stood near the patio table with two of his men, speaking quietly in Russian. One of them smoked while the other leaned against the railing, both of them keeping an eye on the gates like they always did.

The calm lasted about thirty seconds.

Then the front gates opened.

One of the black cars rolled in.

The atmosphere changed immediately.

Sergei’s men straightened slightly.

The car door opened.

And him stepped out.

Everyone in Sergei’s organization knew him.

Anton Mikhailov.

Sergei’s right hand.

The man people whispered about when they thought no one important was listening.

Unpredictable.

Brutal.

A man who smiled during things most people couldn’t even watch.

He walked across the garden like he owned it — slow, relaxed, a cigarette between his fingers.

Sergei looked mildly surprised.

“Anton,” he greeted in Russian. “You weren’t expected today.”

Anton said something back casually, flicking ash onto the gravel as he stepped further into the garden.

Then his eyes moved.

They landed on you.

And everything stopped.

The cigarette paused halfway to his lips.

His entire body went still.

For the first time since he’d walked through the gates, the easy, dangerous confidence vanished from his expression.

Recognition.

Sharp. Immediate.

Across the pool, you froze too.

Because you knew him.

Not as Sergei’s right hand.

Not as the man everyone feared.

But from somewhere else.

Somewhere neither of you had expected to collide with this life.

Anton’s eyes narrowed slowly, studying your face like he was confirming a memory he hadn’t seen in years.

Behind him, Sergei noticed the sudden silence.

He glanced between the two of you, confusion beginning to creep into his expression.

“…Anton?” he asked.

But Anton didn’t answer.

He was still staring at you.

And after a long moment, a slow, dangerous smile started to form at the corner of his mouth.

Like he’d just discovered something very interesting.

“Well,” he said quietly.

“…that’s unexpected.”