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“The Winter Palace?” I repeat, glancing at Talon, whose subtle frown confirms my concern. “I thought that was a museum now.”

A ghost of a smile crosses Alexei's stern features. “The original Winter Palace houses the Hermitage Museum, yes. Mr. Petrov's residence is a...private homage to the original. Built to similar specifications but with modern amenities.”

Of course, Victor Petrov would build himself a replica of the czars' imperial residence. The man's ego truly knows no bounds.

“I see.” I turn my attention back to the passing cityscape. “And my associates? Will they be joining us there?”

“All in good time, Miss Rossi,” Alexei replies, his tone making it clear the conversation is over.

I feel Talon tense beside me, his hand subtly shifting to rest closer to mine on the leather seat. silent gesture of support and protection. The dim interior of the SUV conceals the way my fingers absently brush against the diamond-studded watch on my wrist. Our only lifeline if we're separated.

Dawn breaks over St. Petersburg as we wind through streets that grow increasingly grand. Elegant buildings in pastel yellows and blues line the wide boulevards, their architecture whispering of imperial glory and old-world wealth. The convoy turns onto a private road flanked by iron gates that swing open at our approach, revealing an expanse of manicured gardens, their edges silvered with early morning frost.

And then I see it. Victor’s homage to the Winter Palace rises before us—a sprawling edifice of turquoise and white, adorned with gilded accents that catch the first rays of sunlight. It’s smaller than the original, perhaps a third of the size, but no less imposing with its neoclassical columns and intricately carved balustrades.

“Subtle,” Talon mutters under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear.

The convoy stops at a circular driveway, and immediately a dozen men in suits emerge from the palace entrance, forming a reception line that feels more like a gauntlet. Alexei exits first, circling the vehicle to open my door.

“Mr. Petrov awaits you in the grand hall,” Alexei says, extending his hand to help me from the vehicle.

I step onto the cobblestone driveway, the chill Russian air cutting through my clothes as I take in the full grandeur of Victor's palace. The waning light catches on countless windows, making the building shimmer like a mirage. I straighten my spine, ignoring the pleasant ache between my thighs as I adopt the posture of someone worthy of this reception.

“Follow me,” Alexei directs, stepping aside to allow me passage.

I glance back at the other SUVs, where Z and Oz are being escorted in different directions. Z's eyes find mine briefly, his expression unreadable to anyone but me. The slight tightening around his mouth is the only indication of his concern before guards lead him toward the eastern wing of the palace.

Talon stays close as we ascend the marble steps, his presence reassuring at my back. The massive doors swing open to reveal an entrance hall that steals my breath. ceilings painted with mythological scenes, marble columns rising like ancient trees, and a floor inlaid with intricate mosaics depicting the Petrov family crest.

“Impressive, isn't it?” says a voice that makes my blood freeze.

Victor Petrov stands at the top of a sweeping staircase, his imposing figure silhouetted against a massive stained-glass window. Even from this distance, I can make out the resemblance to Z and Oz. The same strong jawline, the samecommanding presence, though where the twins radiate barely contained wildness, Victor exudes calculated control.

He descends the stairs with unhurried grace, each step measured and deliberate. He's taller than I expected, well over six feet, with broad shoulders encased in what I recognize as a bespoke suit. His hair is silver at the temples, styled impeccably.

“Vesper Rossi,” he says, my name rolling off his tongue with an accent thicker than his nephews'. “At last we meet.”

I force my lips into a smile, extending my hand with more confidence than I feel. “Victor. Thank you for your hospitality.”

He takes my offered hand, but instead of shaking it, he raises it to his lips. His eyes never leave mine as his lips brush my knuckles.

“The pleasure is mine,” he replies, releasing my hand.

His attention slides to Talon. “And this is your...security detail?”

“Talon St. James,” I confirm, watching as the two men size each other up like wolves from rival packs.

“American?” Victor notes, his tone making the word sound like an insult. “Interesting choice. He looks a little fragile for security, no?”

Talon doesn't rise to the bait, maintaining professional composure as he inclines his head in acknowledgment. "Mr. Petrov."

Victor's attention returns to me. “You've had a long journey,” he says after a moment. “Perhaps you'd like to freshen up before we discuss the matter that brings you to my home?”

The polite suggestion carries his command. I recognize the tactic, giving me time to grow anxious, to second-guess myself while he interrogates Z and Oz separately.

“I'd prefer to address our business immediately. Time is precious, after all,” I counter smoothly,

"My private study, then. We can speak freely there." He gestures toward a corridor branching off from the grand entrance.