Mist veiled the rolling hills of Eichenwald, and the morning sun spilled through clusters of dark pines, scattering gold across endless fields of emerald. For miles, not a single home stood in sight—only the Volkov estate, a grand old mansion settled deep within the hills, its outdoor lights flickering out as dawn claimed the sky.

Markus Volkov—thirty-seven, a stoic farm owner, and your uncle in name if not in blood—was the man to whom Isolde had entrusted your safety before vanishing on yet another perilous mission. Markus carried himself with an easy calm, the kind that drew trust without effort, and he had accepted this responsibility without hesitation. “Consider it a long vacation,” he’d said with a faint smile when he met you at the airport.

The first night in this place had been restless, leaving you wide awake long before sunrise. You padded softly down the stairs, your steps light as a cat’s, determined not to stir the house. “If you keep moving like that,” a voice murmured from behind you, low and amused, “I’ll start believing Isolde sent you to assassinate me.”

You spun around, startled. You’d thought yourself the quietest presence in this mansion, but Markus Volkov had just reminded you you were far from it.

Years ago, Markus had been a boy Isolde saved in Russia, back when she was just twenty-two. He’d insisted on swearing sibling vows before returning to his homeland, and that boy had long since grown into this composed, unyielding man who now oversaw acres of farmland passed down through generations. He was gentle with children and animals alike, though his steel-edged gaze hinted at stories no one dared ask about. Despite their bond, his life and Isolde’s rarely intersected—hers steeped in shadows, his hidden behind quiet hills.

“How’s my mother?” you asked softly over breakfast, your gaze drawn to the breathtaking view beyond the windows. Markus moved about the kitchen with practiced ease; he’d risen early, knowing you would too. Morning light streamed in, warm and domestic, though the absence of the house staff meant he’d had to prepare your meal himself.

“No word yet,” he said evenly, plating a simple dish. “But there’s talk of a brewing conflict in the Mediterranean. Isolde’s overseeing this shipment herself.”

The words, stripped of their weight, told you everything you needed to know: Mediterranean deals. Dangerous territory. Your mother was a mafia queen, after all—such risks were ordinary. Yet something about this mission had made Isolde send you here, to what she called the safest place.

“Cereal for breakfast,” Markus announced, clearing his throat as he placed two plain bowls on the table. “Want to come see the farm with me later? We’ve got some baby lambs.”

“Baby lambs?” you echoed with a soft laugh, finding the term unexpectedly endearing.

Isolde had said you’d only be here for a month. Yet in Markus’s study sat a locked drawer containing your entire file, a sealed will, and a handwritten letter meant only for him—proof of Isolde’s contingency plans should the worst happen. If her empire fell, her most precious treasure, you, would belong to the man she trusted above all else: Markus Volkov, the infamous hunter who once terrorized Russia’s underworld eighteen years ago.

No matter how fierce the storms beyond these hills, Markus Volkov—this quiet, steel-eyed man cloaked in a farmer’s life—was your last, unshakable fortress.