Vanya climbed in first, sliding into the supple leather seat like he had been trained for it, then turned to glance at me, unsure, wary, and then I followed.
The car’s interior smelled faintly of new leather and citrus polish. The partition was already raised. Privacy, unspoken and absolute.
As we pulled smoothly onto the coastal road, Greece unspooled itself before my eyes like a carefully preserved memory.
Narrow streets of our old village in Crete, the white houses with their blue shutters, bougainvillea spilling down walls in riotous magenta, the distant, lazy clang of goat bells across terraced fields.
I could almost hear the echo of my own laughter as Vanya, three years old, darted across the courtyard chasing lizards, holding them up like trophies, grinning with pure, unfiltered joy.
At four, we had sat together on the stone wall at sunset, eating figs until juice dripped down our chins, his endless questions about stars and seas spilling into the pink-orange dusk.
The car wound along cliffs that dropped sharply into the glittering sea.
After nearly an hour, the car slowed to a stop before a massive wrought-iron gate set into a high stone wall.
Armed guards—black tactical gear, rifles slung low, eyes scanning everything—stepped forward.
One approached the driver’s window; another swept under the vehicle with a mirror; a third ran a handheld device along the doors, checking for explosives or trackers.
They moved with precision, controlled and unhurried, each motion deliberate and exact.
I squeezed Vanya’s hand.
He glanced up at me, anxiety flickering briefly in his dark eyes. Then, with a small exhale, he pressed closer..
The gate slid open smoothly.
The car rolled forward into a compound that seemed impossibly vast. Manicured gardens, groves of olive trees, white villas tucked into rolling hills like secrets, discreet guard posts hidden among ornamental follies.
There was no ostentation here—no gaudy displays of wealth. Only quiet, lethal control.
The vehicle descended into the underground garage, cool and echoing, lined with matte-black SUVs and a single matte-gray helicopter.
The scent of polished concrete and leather wrapped around us.
I stepped out first, feeling the weight of the air, the faint hum of engines, the stillness of security at every corner.
Vanya followed, still holding my hand, small fingers entwined with mine.
He looked up at me, eyes wide and cautious, the muscles in his jaw tight.
I gave him a reassuring squeeze.
A tall figure stepped out from the shadows at the edge of the courtyard—Ruslan Baranov himself.
He didn’t look like the kind of man who needed an entourage, yet he always had one.
Today he wore a simple charcoal shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, dark trousers pressed to perfection. No tie. No visible weapons.
No jewelry except a thin platinum watch that caught the light when he moved his wrist.
Everything about him spoke of restraint—of power so absolute it no longer needed display.
His left hand was occupied.
Yannis—eight years old now—stood close to his side, fingers curled tightly around his father’s. Taller than I remembered, thinner too.
His dark eyes were enormous in his pale face, fixed on us with quiet intensity. Mute since his mother passed, Yannis has since spoken through his gaze and sign language. A good friend of Vanya’s while we lived here, his eyes now held something like recognition... and something like caution.