(Vasiliev Island, Russia – 4:00 PM)

The icy breeze rolled in from the shores of Vasiliev Island, ruffling the waves as Lorenzo’s private yacht docked at the secluded harbor. The island, hidden deep within Russian waters and protected by its natural cliffs, was a fortress in its own right—a perfect retreat for someone like him. Yet as he stepped off the yacht, a cold sense of unease crept over him.

Something was wrong.

The sprawling mansion that crowned the island was eerily silent. No sound of footsteps. No warmth of her presence. His jaw tightened as he strode through the front doors, his sharp gaze cutting through the dimly lit hall.

"Where is she?" Lorenzo’s voice was low, the edge in his tone unmistakable.

The guards stationed near the entrance stiffened but offered no response. Their hesitation ignited the spark of fury already building inside him.

"WHERE THE HELL IS MY WIFE?" His roar reverberated through the marble halls, the sound carrying to every corner of the house.

The men scattered immediately, their fear evident as they rushed to search the estate. Lorenzo didn’t wait. His enemies were ruthless, and his wife wasn’t just his partner—she was his weakness. A target for anyone daring enough to challenge him. The thought of her being taken, or worse, made his blood boil. Room by room, he searched, his mind racing. She was smart, capable—more so than anyone he knew—but even she wasn’t invincible. Finally, he reached their bedroom. The heavy oak doors swung open with a loud creak, and there she was. Not in danger. Not taken.

Asleep.

She was curled up on the floor, wrapped in a nest of his clothes, her breathing soft and steady. Lorenzo froze, his fury dissolving into something unnameable. Relief. Exhaustion. A flicker of amusement, even.

He stepped closer, kneeling beside her. For a moment, he just watched her, the tension in his shoulders easing. Gently, he brushed a strand of hair away from her face, his hand lingering.