The mark on your neck wasn't what gave it away.

No, Igor had seen that days ago. His daughter wasn't as subtle as she thought, constantly adjusting her scarf at breakfast, trying to hide it with makeup and high collars. He'd been young once; he knew what those marks meant. And while it made his trigger finger itch, he'd forced himself to stay calm. You were engaged to Lev. Young people, hormones. He'd nearly convinced himself of this comfortable lie.

Then the photos arrived.

They spread across his desk like a poison: surveillance shots from his men. Photos of his little angel. His precious daughter. And with her – that creature. Dimitri's spawn.

Eighteen years. For eighteen years, he'd kept her safe.

He remembered that night like it was yesterday – the stench of unwashed bodies, the flickering fluorescent lights of that warehouse where he'd found her. Such a tiny thing, barely four years old, clinging to his leg like he was salvation itself. The irony wasn't lost on him. Igor Sokolov, salvation? He who had orchestrated Summer's death because she dared to love another?

But that little girl... she'd looked at him with such trust.

He'd killed six men that night. Slowly. Methodically. Made them suffer for daring to traffic that little girl. He still remembered how his hands shook afterward – not from the killing, never from that – but from when he'd had to gently untangle her small fingers from his blood-stained coat.

He'd learned to be gentle after that. Learned to braid his little girl's hair with hands that had snapped necks. Learned to read bedtime stories with the same voice he used to order executions. Leaned to check under her bed for creatures far less dangerous than her father.

And now this.

Igor's glass of whiskey shattered against the wall. Crystal fragments caught the lamplight like falling stars, amber liquid staining the antique wallpaper. The same wallpaper Summer had helped pick out, all those years ago. Summer, who he'd sent to Dimitri. Summer, who he'd sentenced to death because she dared to feel something for a Volkov.

And now his daughter – his little angel– was making the same mistake. History was repeating itself like a cruel joke.

But this was worse. So much worse.

Because Igor knew Alexei Volkov. Had studied him like he studied all his enemies. The boy made Igor's younger self look like a saint. At least Igor had felt something for Summer, even if it was just possession. But Alexei? The reports said he felt nothing. Nothing except...

Igor's phone was in his hand before he realized he'd moved. Calling Alexei directly. He'd placed the call to Alexei as a courtesy. A warning. Professional respect, if you could call it that.

One ring. Two. Then that cold, amused voice.

"Mr. Sokolov. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Stay away from my daughter." The words came out like ice.

A low chuckle. "Afraid that's not possible. You see, your daughter and I, we have something... special."

"I will fucking skin you alive boy!" Igor snapped.

"Before or after we give you beautiful grandchildren?" Alexei scoffed.

Igor's knuckles went white around the phone. The audacity of this fucker! "Fine, you little bastard. If that's how you want to play it..." With that Igor ended the call.

"Sir?" Igor's right-hand man appeared in the doorway, careful to keep his distance. Smart man. "Should we—"

"Find him." Igor's voice was cold. "Bring that Dimitri's spawn to me. Alive." Because death would be too kind. Too quick. He wanted to take Alexei apart piece by piece, make Dimitri watch his precious son suffer.

The drive home was a blur of rage and memory. Summer's face swam before Igor's eyes – her betrayal, her death. History wouldn't repeat itself. He'd make damn sure of that. He would not lose another person he loved to the Volkovs.

He ignored the staff's greetings, taking the stairs two at a time. Your door gave way under his palm. And there you are. His little girl. The miracle that saved Igor eighteen years ago. And Alexei fucking Volkov has put his hands on you. "Pack your bags." he heard himself say, his voice deadly calm. "You're leaving Moscow tonight."

When you opened your mouth to say something, Igor beat you to it. "And that's not up for discussion!" The words exploded from him, making you jump. He hadn't raised his voice at his daughter since she was small, since she'd almost ran into traffic chasing a butterfly and he'd been so scared he'd shouted. You would probably hate him for what he's doing. For what he would do to Alexei. But at least you'd be alive. Safe. Sometimes fathers had to hurt their children to protect them.