Chapter 5 - The Lake Geneva Safehouse
The safehouse wasn't a cabin; it was a modern fortress of cedar and glass perched on a secluded bluff overlooking the frozen waters of Lake Geneva. Surrounded by dense pine forests and secured by high perimeter walls, it stood isolated against the howling white squall.
Marcus swept the house room by room while I carried an exhausted, emotionally drained Finn upstairs. The master bedroom was vast, dominated by a massive stone fireplace and a king-sized bed covered in plush furs.
I stripped Finn of his damp clothes, dressed him in one of the oversized thermal shirts left in the dresser, and tucked him beneath the blankets.
“Stay with me?” he whispered, his eyelids fluttering with heavy exhaustion.
“Always,” I said softly.
I climbed under the covers beside him, pulling his little back against my chest, wrapping my arms around him until his breathing evened out into deep, uninterrupted sleep. The trauma of the morning had finally taken its toll.
Downstairs, I heard Marcus checking locks, arming perimeter sensors, and speaking in hushed, tense tones on a satellite phone.
I lay there in the dim light, watching the snow lash against the tall glass windows.
My mind kept rewinding to the image of Victor standing at the foot of that staircase. The sheer, terrifying power of the man. The utter disregard for his own life. And then—the way he had gripped my shoulders in that hallway. *You are the only person on this earth I trust with my son’s life.*
He had meant it. For all his cruelty, for all his cold, biting words about who was waiting for me outside, he had handed me the only piece of his soul that mattered.
Hours bled into the afternoon, and the afternoon faded into an ink-black winter night.
Around nine o’clock, the low, powerful rumble of an engine broke through the howling wind outside.
I stiffened. Beside me, Finn didn't stir, lost in deep sleep.
I slipped carefully from the bed, stepped into the dark hallway, and looked over the railing of the second floor.
The heavy front door clicked open.
A blast of sub-zero wind and swirling snow rushed into the entryway. Marcus was there immediately, lowering his weapon as a tall, imposing figure stepped inside.
Victor.
He was covered in a dusting of snow, his heavy black wool overcoat soaked at the shoulders. He looked pale, his jaw set in rigid lines. He said something low to Marcus, who nodded solemnly and moved toward the kitchen, leaving Victor alone in the foyer.
Victor slowly pulled off his leather gloves. Then, as he attempted to shrug out of his heavy coat, he suddenly caught himself on the console table, his entire frame shuddering. A sharp, agonized hiss tore past his lips.
My feet moved before my brain could stop them.
I padded down the stairs in my bare feet, my steps silent on the wood.
“Victor?”
He snapped his head up, his gray eyes flashing with instant defensive instinct. When he saw it was me, the tension didn't leave him, but the lethal edge softened into something exhausted.
“I told you to stay upstairs,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
“You’re hurt,” I said, reaching the bottom of the stairs and closing the distance between us.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re lying.”
I reached for the front of his coat. He raised a hand to block me, but he was slow—too slow. My fingers brushed his left side, beneath the wool, and when I pulled them back, my palm was slick with warm, dark blood.
May you like
My breath caught. “Victor. You’ve been shot.”
***