Few can break that cycle. By forging her own path, Willow was braver than I could ever hope to be—though Mischa is the kind of man decent enough to allow his children the freedom to grow into their own.
Most aren’t, and most children never escape the crushing weight of their forebearer’s shadow.
It’s a line of thought I try to avoid, and for a good reason. Control is an asset a man like me comes to cherish—namely, because it’s so rare and fleeting. I lose my grip on my thoughts for a second, and they scatter. Instead of Willow, I see another face. Just as pretty, her hair darker, eyes rounder. She never got the chance to live out a life following some innocent future endeavor.
Because I failed her too.
The guilt I feel is a knife slicing at my splintering control—but a simple mantra is enough to repair it. Loyalty first. Survival second. Stay focused on the job at hand and never lose sight of your task...
I repeat that creed until my mind clears, but I’m no less ashamed by my own failure. Gritting my teeth, I express the irritation the only way I can. “Fuck.”
That curse says it all—this is my fault. My responsibility.
“There’s been no sighting of her at all since last night?” I demand of the man beside me. The question—as is our presence in this very room—is a mere formality. It’s already been hours since the alarm went up, with the mid-morning quickly approaching.
It’s not a question of if Willow is missing but for how long—and who might be involved if she left willingly?
There aren’t many options given the size of her social circle—her family’s manor, or her closeted school in Vienna. Two teams of my men are out scouring the nearby road, as well as four key locations, but given their lack of contact, I doubt they’ve found anything useful yet.
And they might not.
Time is ticking. Who knows how far she’s gotten by now. Or what state she’s in…
“Yes, sir,” one of the men replies, drawing up to my side. Fairly young, he’s a new recruit, and I spot his hands fidgeting with the sleeve of his gray uniform jacket. I know how he feels, but just months into the job, he hasn’t gotten it yet—our most important work is done in these quiet moments, far from gunfire.
Even if it feels as useless as twiddling thumbs.
“Tell me what you’ve deduced so far,” I command, facing him directly.
He clears his throat. “She’s not on the property. Left alone, it seems. No signs of forced entry,” he adds. “If you plan on sending out another team, I’m ready.”
I ignore the suggestion, though I’m just as anxious to get moving. Do something.
Damn, Willow. She’s not like the other coddled heiresses I’ve dealt with. A beautiful girl with a wealth of secrets behind her silence. What in the hell would make her run?
There’s always the possibility that someone breached the manor and took her—but I secured the premises myself. Two teams of ten patrol at all times, covering every inch of the property, not to mention the state-of-the-art surveillance. I’m fairly confident that God himself couldn’t break into this manor.
But a certain sheltered heiress could find a way to sneak out, if she were so determined.
Before I know it, I’m questioning yet another tenet of my tried and true creed. What use is loyalty to a family wrought with secrets? How can I protect what I can’t even begin to understand?
I know the answer—my intuition hasn’t failed me yet, and it’s telling me that this has everything to do with one man and one man only.
Donatello Vanici.
What is his tie to the Stepanovs beyond the obvious? Mischa rarely gives in to impulse, but he drew first blood against Vanici without even waiting for better intel. Only God knows what can of worms he might have opened as a result.
And I’m the fool left to wrangle the mess with no clue as to the nature of it.
“Sir?” the man beside me questions.
I wave him off. “Give me a moment.”
Setting aside any suspicion, I refocus on the room itself. There has to be something here. A clue. Anything. I start with the bed. It’s been left fully made, the sheets undisturbed. The only means of exit, other than the door, are the windows, both closed. I test the latch of one, finding it locked. Not to mention it’s too high from this floor to climb down unseen.
“She didn’t leave from here,” I state out loud.
Which makes one possibility all the more likely—though I have enough tact not to say as much. Not until I’ve left the rookie behind and retraced my steps throughout the house, finally entering a study on the first floor.
Sympathy is an emotion I tend to shun, but if any man deserves it, it’s Mischa Stepanov.
I don’t think he’s slept for days. Seated behind his desk, he could be mistaken for a ghost. Pale skin and windswept blond hair only add to the effect, and I wouldn’t put it past him to have patrolled the outskirts of the property himself on foot.
All night.
One look at him, and I feel compelled to bend those boundaries I’ve steadfastly maintained.
“Mischa…” On second thought, I suppress the urge in favor of doing the one useful thing I can.
Stay professional.
“Sir,” I say instead, pausing near the threshold of the room. Spacious, with a view of the west lawn, it’s a prime position to spot any traffic in or out of the manor. I can’t resist scanning the expanse of road, hoping to see a mafiya van on the horizon, Willow in tow.
All I find are the gray sky, fields, and the trees beyond.
“You’ve rechecked the property as I asked?” Mischa asks without looking up from his clasped hands. The muted response is a world apart from his initial reaction hours earlier—a fact that would terrify anyone who knew the man personally.
His anger may be legendary, but he’s at his most dangerous when calm.
“Yes, sir,” I say in answer to his question. “There is no sign of forced entry. I have my men in two teams out looking, but Vanici’s residences have been cleared out. There’s been no sign that he’s left the city, and—”
“She couldn’t have gotten far on foot,” Mischa interjects, turning to stare from one of the windows.
Like me, I suspect he’s merely going through the motions, voicing the expected questions when the answer is painfully obvious.
“Yes, sir,” I reply anyway.
“She left on her own, didn’t she?” There is no despair in his voice. No anguish.
I’ve never seen a man so drained of everything but pure exhaustion.
Standing at attention, I don’t mince words. “My guess is that she left on her own but impulsively.” I can’t disguise the irritation in my voice.
Willow could be calm and reserved well beyond her nineteen years—but at her core, she’s still nineteen. A child.
Mingled among the reports from her detail overseas in Vienna would be anecdotes of her sternly exposing a professor who insulted her or reprimanding anyone who dared to treat her any differently due to her disability.
“She’s strong,” I say finally.
“She’s impulsive,” Mischa snaps. “She’s stubborn.”
He’s right—and she has no fucking clue as to the way things really are, or how far some men might go to gain leverage over her father.