MATTEO’S POV
The glass in my hand felt heavier than usual, its weight matching the gnawing burden inside my chest. I tilted it back and let the whisky burn its way down my throat, its fire doing nothing to thaw the ice that had settled in my veins ever since Sophia disappeared into Aleksandr’s world. I sat in the dim glow of my private study, the only light coming from the flickering embers in the fireplace. The room smelled of old leather, smoke, and quiet rage.
My eyes locked on the framed photo of Sophia on my desk. She was smiling—radiant, alive, safe. That smile haunted me now. Every night I stared at it, hoping the image would give me some strength, some clarity. But it only reminded me of how far away she was. Of how helpless I felt.
Moscow.