Duca kept his word, as people always do when they don't bother explaining—only executing.
In less than two hours, I was already on a plane bound for Russia, a word tossed over his shoulder with no details, no promises, no guarantees—just that: Russia, as if it were a temporary address and not a sentence.
I have no documents, no clothes, and as the city slipped away beneath us and its lights dissolved into blurred points, it became increasingly clear that I no longer had a future—at least not one that belonged to me.
Everything happened too fast for me to truly protest, though part of me suspects I wouldn't have done so anyway, because from the moment I left Duca's house, he began speaking on the phone without pause, call after call, as if the entire world needed to be rearranged before dawn. Low voices, sharp orders, languages switching rapidly—Italian, Russian, perhaps others I didn't recognize, though their tone left no room for interpretation.
And yet, in the middle of this calculated chaos, he didn't forget me.
His hand stayed over mine, warm and steady, a grip firm enough to keep me anchored in reality, yet gentle enough to make me wonder whether the gesture was meant to protect me… or to claim me.
That thought, more than the unknown destination, tightened my stomach.
Now we're on the plane.
A private jet, immaculate to the point of obsession, with white leather stretched flawlessly over wide seats, polished metal that bore no trace of use, and a controlled, almost sterile silence, as if noise itself were forbidden by some unwritten rule. Everything smelled of old money and irreversible decisions—the kind that aren't debated and aren't regretted.
Across from us sits the man I've kept glimpsing in Duca's shadow, always a step behind him, yet never invisible. He's older, but not in a way that suggests weakness—rather, experience earned through survival. His graying hair is cut short, practical, without vanity, and his facial features are hard, as if carved from stone, with a cold symmetry that inspires not trust, but discipline. His pale gray gaze doesn't slide or blink unnecessarily; it stops, fixes, dissects, as though every person were an equation to be solved quickly.
His body is rigid, not from tension but from habit—the posture of a man who has learned to always be ready, always in control, always one step ahead of violence. He wears nothing ostentatious, yet every detail of his presence suggests power—not the kind that's displayed, but the kind that never needs to prove itself.
"Ivar," he says simply.
The name lands heavily between us, like the final piece in a mechanism snapping shut.
Farther back, a few rows away, almost pressed against the wall of the aircraft, is the third man. I notice him only then, though he'd been there from the start, perfectly integrated into the setting, like an extension of it. Gaston—as I would later learn—Duca's bodyguard.
He sits with his back slightly turned toward us, large headphones covering his ears, eyes closed, his body relaxed in a way that has nothing to do with real sleep. He's younger than Ivar, but built on the same framework of dense muscle and economical movement—the kind of body trained not for aesthetics, but for impact. Ever since we boarded the plane, he's ignored me completely, as if I were an object or an irrelevant variable, and his calculated indifference feels almost more unsettling than Ivar's cold scrutiny.
If Ivar is the mind, Gaston seems to be the arm—just as devoid of sentiment, only quieter.
Duca takes another call—probably the hundredth tonight—and this time he doesn't even try to hide his irritation. He stands up abruptly, releases my hand for the first time since we left, and heads toward the back of the plane, where I know the private compartment is, a bedroom, I think. His voice bursts out in Italian just before the door closes behind him, sharp and dangerous, as if someone, somewhere, has just made a serious mistake.
I'm left alone with Ivar.
His gaze locks onto me without any expression. He doesn't study me like a man. He assesses me like a problem.
And that frightens me more than any scream could.
"I usually clean up Duca's messes," he says at last.
He doesn't rush. He runs his thumb along the edge of the watch on his wrist, a small, almost reflexive gesture, as if marking an invisible pause.
"Blood. Money. People who know too much."
He lets his hand drop, his eyes still fixed on me.
"Taking care of a woman for him… that's new."
He doesn't say it's suspicious. He doesn't need to. The way he tilts his head, evaluating me again, says everything.
His gaze drifts slowly over my face, then lowers to my hands. One eyebrow lifts imperceptibly—just enough for me to know he's noted the detail.
"You're important to him," he says finally. "Otherwise, you'd be wearing a blindfold so you wouldn't see us. What does that mean? Probably that he doesn't plan to bring you back—or that he doesn't see you as a threat. Right?"
I don't answer. The air between us grows heavier.
Ivar runs his finger over his watch again—the same gesture, the same controlled pause.
"He made a mistake."
Two words. No anger. No hesitation.
"Desire complicates things. Reason solves them."
He doesn't look at me as a beautiful woman, but as a variable that doesn't fit into a carefully constructed equation. And that, I realize, is more dangerous than Duca's impulsiveness.
Because Duca reacts. Ivar anticipates.
He studies me again, this time more closely, as if searching for cracks that refuse to appear.
"You don't flinch. You don't avoid eye contact."
Another pause.
"You don't seem afraid."
His thumb brushes the watch once more.
"You seem attentive."
The word hangs between us.
"Police?"
He tilts his head slightly, watching my reaction.
"Spy?"
His voice doesn't change.
"If you were either," he says calmly, "your usefulness would be… limited."
Only then do I understand, with a cold clarity that leaves no room for denial, that Ivar is not the kind of man who makes threats—because threats are unnecessary when the outcome is already decided.
He doesn't promise violence or display it. He simply observes the facts, arranges them in an order that belongs to him alone, and draws conclusions from which there is no return.
And at that exact moment—without warning, without dramatic gestures—I feel it.
Real fear.
Not the kind that speeds up your breathing or makes your hands go numb, but the kind that settles slowly, deeply, like the certainty that you've stepped into a territory you will never leave whole.
Ivar moves closer—far closer than necessary—and the air between us tightens until I can feel his controlled, calculated breath, unhurried, precise. The grin that spreads across his face holds nothing human in it; it isn't anger or pleasure, but a silent, exact warning, meant to be understood without explanation.
Without thinking, without weighing consequences, I react instinctively and spit—a primitive, useless gesture, but the only one that still belongs to me.
Straight at him.
For a fraction of a second, time seems to stop, as if even the plane were suspended between two realities.
His eyes narrow imperceptibly, yet he doesn't strike me, doesn't raise his voice, doesn't do anything that would have been expected. He wipes himself slowly, methodically, with a care that makes me understand that instead of provoking him, I've merely intrigued him.
"Courage," he murmurs. "Or madness."
I don't submit, I don't shrink under his gaze. I'm not predictable, and I don't react the way the women in their world do—the ones who tremble beautifully at the right moment and fall intelligently silent to survive.
I am brave. Or unbelievably stupid. Or maybe just terrified, and that's why I'm frozen.
"There's no reason for a man like him to choose you," he says coldly. "You're beautiful, yes, but beauty isn't rare—and you are not… special."
For the first time, I don't contradict him. Ivar steps back, the decision already made.
"Until I find out who you really are, you'll be treated as an active threat."
He takes out his phone.
"By the time we set foot on Russian soil, I'll know everything there is to know about you," he says calmly, and starts typing.
He lifts his eyes to me one last time.
"So tell me, Alla—how loudly do you think you could scream before you break?" he asks almost absentmindedly. "I have a weakness for beautiful things—especially for the moment they prove fragile."