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She doesn't strike me as the typical mafia girlfriend—there's too much steel in her spine, too much calculation in her eyes. “You seem well-informed about my situation.”

“More than you might think.” She takes another sip of coffee. “Would you like some? It's a special Brazilian roast.”

The casual offer of coffee in this surreal situation almost makes me laugh. Here I am, a prisoner, being offered gourmet coffee by what appears to be Nikolai Ivanov's wife.

“Yes, actually. Coffee would be nice.” I move toward the counter, grateful for the female company after days of testosterone-fueled tension. “The men around here aren't exactly stellar conversationalists.”

Sofia's laugh rings genuine as she reaches for another mug. “They do tend toward the brooding and mysterious, don't they?” She pours the coffee with practiced grace. “Cream? Sugar?”

“Black is fine.” I accept the steaming mug, inhaling the rich aroma. “It's... refreshing to talk to someone who isn't guarding me.”

“Or brooding?” Her knowing look makes me wonder just how much she sees. “Erik can be particularly intense.”

I nearly choke on my coffee. “That's one word for it.”

“He's not usually assigned to protection detail.” Sofia leans against the counter, her posture relaxed but observant. “Nikolai must have his reasons.”

“Protection detail?” I can't help the sarcasm. “Is that what we're calling kidnapping now?”

“Fair point.” She doesn't argue it, which I appreciate. “Though in this world, sometimes protection and captivity look remarkably similar.”

I study her over my coffee cup. There's something comforting about her presence—maybe it's just the relief of having another woman to talk to, or maybe it's the way she doesn't try to justify or excuse the situation.

“How did you wind up with Nikolai Ivanov?” I ask, genuinely curious about how someone so refined like her got tangled up with the Ivanovs.

Sofia's lips curve into a private smile. “It's quite the story. Let's just say once Nikolai sets his sights on something—or someone—he doesn't stop until he gets what he wants.”

“He pursued you?” I ask.

“Relentlessly.” She tilts her head. “I owned an art gallery in Boston. He began attending exhibitions and purchasing pieces. Always lingering just long enough to make his presence known. At first, I had no idea who he really was.”

“And when you found out?”

“By then, it was too late.” Her eyes meet mine. “He'd already woven himself into every aspect of my life. The way he did it—it was subtle. You don't realize you're caught until the net's already closed.”

The parallel to my own situation isn't lost on me. “But you stayed. Even after knowing what he was?”

“Nikolai...” She pauses, choosing her words. “He has this way of making you see the world differently. The lines between right and wrong start to blur. And kind of power, that kind of devotion can be intoxicating.”

Her words hit too close to home, reminding me of Erik's intensity and his unwavering focus. I push the thought away.

“He sounds possessive,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral.

“All the Ivanov men are.” Sofia gives me a knowing look. “It's in their blood. They don't know how to want things halfway.”

My mind flashes to Erik—his rigid control one moment, then that explosive passion the next. The way his eyes turn molten when I push him too far. How his hands can shift from clinical distance to burning possession in a heartbeat.

“You're thinking about Erik right now, aren't you?” Sofia's knowing smile makes me flush deeper.

I stare into my coffee. “He's... unpredictable.”

“Unpredictable?” She arches an eyebrow. “Erik is many things, but unpredictable isn't one of them. He's like a powder keg—you always know it's going to explode. The only question is when.”

She's right. Erik maintains that iron discipline until something—usually me—makes him snap. Then, all that carefully contained fire erupts, consuming everything in its path. Including me. Especially me.

“He switches so fast,” I admit, surprising myself with the confession. “One minute, he's this brooding statue, barely speaking. The next...” I trail off, remembering the heat of his hands, the bruising force of his grip.

“And the next, he's all passion and intensity?” Sofia finishes. “That's what happens when someone spends so long containing themselves. When they finally let go...” She gives me a meaningful look.