Chapter 2 - SPLINTERS IN THE SANCTUARY
The private medical wing of the Petrov estate did not smell like a hospital. It smelled of ozone, polished mahogany, and antiseptic lavender.
When Aaliyah opened her eyes, the first thing she noticed was the ceiling. It was coffered oak, carved with intricate patterns of vines and predatory birds. The second thing she noticed was the weight against her left hip.
Leo was asleep, curled in a tight ball on top of the heavy goose-down duvet, his cheek resting against her thigh. One of his small hands was threaded through the belt loops of the loose hospital trousers she had been dressed in.
The third thing she noticed was Roman.
He was sitting in a high-backed leather chair beside the floor-to-ceiling windows. The curtains were drawn, casting the room in a muted, amber gloom. He had shed his jacket and tie; his white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and crisscrossed with faded scars. In his right hand, he held an unlit cigar, turning it over and over between his fingers with hypnotic precision.
"You have six stitches in your left shoulder," Roman said quietly, his voice cutting through the stillness before she had even shifted. "Concussion. Two cracked ribs from the blast pressure. Multiple superficial lacerations along your back."
Aaliyah swallowed, her throat parched. "Leo?"
"Not a scratch," Roman replied. He rose from the chair, a towering silhouette that seemed to swallow the light in the room. He walked to the edge of the bed and poured water from a crystal carafe into a glass, offering it to her.
She tried to push herself up, wincing as the muscles in her torso seized. Roman didn't wait. He leaned forward, sliding a large, warm hand behind her neck, supporting her weight with effortless gentleness as he brought the rim of the glass to her lips.
She drank greedily, the cool water soothing her burning throat. Her skin hummed where his fingers touched the nape of her neck. He was too close. The sheer physical gravity of him was suffocating; he was a man who lived in the headlines of financial journals by day and orchestrated assassinations by night.
"You shouldn't have been there," she whispered, leaning back against the pillows as he withdrew his hand.
"The garage was supposed to be a secure transit point," Roman said, his jaw tightening until the muscle ticked beneath the skin. "My head of logistics assured me the route was cleared twenty minutes prior. He is currently in the basement, answering questions regarding that oversight."
A chill ran down Aaliyah’s spine. The casualness with which he mentioned torture was chilling, yet in this world, it was simply administrative protocol.
"Why did you do it?" Roman asked suddenly.
The room grew very still. His gaze was searching, stripping away every layer of defense she possessed.
"Do what?"
"You had seven rounds. You neutralized one hostile. You had an exit vector to your left behind the concrete pillar. You could have run. A trained operative would have assessed the survival probability of protecting a principal under grenade assault at less than four percent." He took a step closer, resting his hands on the carved footboard of the bed. "You stayed. You used your body as armor. Why?"
Aaliyah looked down at the boy sleeping beside her. Her fingers softly brushed a stray lock of dark hair from Leo’s forehead.
"I grew up in foster homes, Mr. Petrov," she said, her voice barely louder than the hum of the air filtration system. "I spent ten years being the thing people threw away when the checks stopped coming or when things got inconvenient. When that grenade rolled toward us... I saw his eyes. He wasn't the heir to the Petrov syndicate. He was just a terrified kid waiting for the adults to abandon him."
She met Roman's icy stare without flinching.
"I don't leave children behind. Not even for seven seconds."
Roman stared at her. For the first time since she had walked into his office three days ago with a forged recommendation letter and desperate eyes, Roman Petrov looked at her not as an employee, not as an anomaly, but as something dangerous.
Something he could not control.
"He hasn't spoken a word since his mother died," Roman murmured, his voice dropping an octave, rich with an emotion he rarely allowed to breathe. "Two years. Three dozen therapists. Neurologists from Zurich. Monks from Kyoto. He bit one of them. He set fire to another’s briefcase."
Roman leaned over the bed, his face mere inches from hers. The heat radiating from him was intoxicating.
"Yet today, he held you. And when my men tried to carry you to the operating room, he drew my sidearm from my holster and pointed it at Caruso."
Aaliyah’s eyes widened. "He what?"
"He didn't know the safety was engaged," Roman said, a faint, humorless smirk touching the corners of his lips before vanishing into grim reality. "He would have killed my second-in-command before he let them separate you from him. You have done something inexplicable, Miss Campbell. You have made yourself indispensable to the only thing in this world that matters to me."
"I just did my job."
"No," Roman said softly, his thumb reaching out to brush against the fresh butterfly bandage over her eyebrow. The touch was so delicate it made her breath catch. "Your job was to ensure he ate his vegetables and practiced his piano. What you did was declare war on whoever wants him dead."
He straightened, the softness evaporating like mist in a furnace.
"The Tarasov family orchestrated the ambush. They believe that by cutting off my bloodline, they can fracture the syndicate before the syndication vote next month. They think I am vulnerable." Roman turned toward the door, his silhouette broad and terrifying. "They will learn the error of that assumption tonight."
"Roman," she called out, using his first name before she could stop herself.
He paused at the threshold, turning his head slightly.
"Keep him safe," she said softly. "He can't survive another ghost."
May you like
Roman’s jaw tightened. "Neither can I," he said, and closed the heavy oak door behind him.
***
