Chapter 5 - Inside the Fortress
An hour later, I was sitting in the back of an armored Mercedes, cruising through the iron gates of the Volkov estate in the elite suburbs of Highland Park.
The compound was breathtaking—a massive stone manor surrounded by high security walls, camera towers, and armed guards patrolling the manicured grounds with trained attack dogs. Yet inside, the house felt colder than a museum. White marble floors, priceless artwork, and towering ceilings created a staggering display of wealth, but there was no warmth, no framed family photos, no laughter.
“My mother died three years ago,” Misha whispered as he led me down the grand hallway by my hand. “After that, Papa stopped playing music in the house.”
My heart broke for the child. Beneath all the luxury, he was just a lonely boy living in a golden cage.
I was brought to a sprawling guest suite overlooking the lake, complete with a private balcony and a kitchen that looked like it belonged in a three-star Michelin restaurant.
That evening, I insisted on cooking dinner myself. I didn’t make caviar or wagyu beef. I made classic, home-style beef stew, fresh sourdough bread, and an apple cobbler.
When Mikhail entered the dining room, he stopped dead in his tracks. The rich, savory aroma of roasted vegetables and baked apples filled the cold marble room, transforming the oppressive atmosphere into something that felt remarkably like a home.
Misha was already at the table, swinging his legs and happily devouring his second bowl of stew.
“You do not need to cook for the entire staff, Sarah,” Mikhail said, leaning against the doorway, his tie loosened, revealing the top button of his dark shirt.
“Cooking is what I do,” I smiled, wiping my hands on an apron. “Besides, food tastes better when it’s made with care, not just duty. Pull up a chair, Mikhail. You look like you haven't eaten a real meal in days.”
The mafia boss hesitated for a second, then sat down across from his son. He took a spoonful of the stew.
May you like
For a brief moment, the terrifying Don of Chicago vanished. His shoulders relaxed, his eyes softened, and he chewed in contented silence.
“It tastes like my grandmother’s kitchen in Saint Petersburg,” Mikhail murmured softly, looking up at me with an intensity that made my pulse jump. “Thank you, Sarah.”
