From yourself.The thought burns through my mind like acid. Every time she's out of my sight, I imagine her finding another bottle of sleeping pills, a knife, another way to leave me. My jaw clenches hard enough to crack teeth.
"There are always threats in our world," I say instead, though the words are ash in my mouth. "You know this."
"I know you're treating me like I'm made of glass, Alex. I survived everything else. The wedding, the blackmail, losing Tommy. I can survive the truth."
"No." The word comes out harder than intended, more growl than speech. "You only survived losing Tommy because I was there to save you. This isn't negotiable, Emma. The guards stay."
I haven’t been idle these past days. The blackmailers’ money trail led me somewhere unexpected: a shell company with ties to Brighton Beach. Russian territory. The blackmail felt personal from the start—someone who knew about Emma, who had access to information about the Hewsons' arrangement. But Russians? The Volkovs have no reason to care about my marriage unless this isn't about Emma at all. Unless she's just the door they're using to get inside.
Either way, she’s in danger, and I intend to keep her safe.
Her jaw sets. Three days ago, she melted at my touch. Now she stands straighter, claiming space instead of retreating. The woman who tried to die came back different. Less willing to be managed.
And she suspects I'm not telling her the truth about Tommy. She suspects I know more than I am letting on.
And she's right.
But I can't tell her. She can't handle the truth, she proved that much when she took those pills. So there's no fucking way in hell I'll risk her doing something so stupid again.
When she's better, I'll tell her. But not now. Not yet.
"Fine." She turns toward the bulletproof glass that make the windows, studying the grounds where my men patrol in precise patterns. "Since you're making all the decisions about my life, have you at least handled the arrangements?"
My chest tightens. "What arrangements?"
"For Tommy." Her voice catches slightly on his name. "His funeral. I need to know when I can say goodbye properly."
The medical reports locked in my drawer burn through the wood. Documents confirming her brother breathes in a secure facility upstate, recovering from injuries but very much alive. The lie I've been living scorches my throat.
"I'm handling everything," I say, keeping my voice smooth. "You don't need to worry about the details."
"I want to worry about them." She turns from the window, dark eyes searching mine. "He was my brother, Alex. I need to know. Where is his body? Which funeral home? When can I see him?"
"Stellina…" The endearment escapes before I can stop it, bitter on my tongue.
"Don't." Her hand cuts through the air. "Don't deflect. Don't evade. Just tell me the truth. Where is Tommy's body?"
I shuffle papers on my desk, buying time while violence coils in my gut. Not toward her, never her, but toward the situation I've created. "The authorities are still processing everything. These things take time."
"How much time?" She moves closer to the desk, her questions becoming pointed weapons. "It's been days. Have you claimed his body? Made arrangements? Or are you just hoping I'll forget?"
"Of course I haven't forgotten." The lie burns. "I'm trying to spare you the pain of…"
"Of what? Grieving my brother properly?" Her voice rises. "I don't need you to spare me, Alex. I need information. I need truth."
Truth.The word sits between us like a loaded Glock. The truth would either heal her or destroy what little stability she's found. Every instinct screams to maintain control, to manage this situation like I manage territories and shipments.
"The morgue requires paperwork," I hedge, watching her face tighten with each evasion. "Identification. Legal processes. I'm handling it all."
"Then show me the paperwork." Her demand catches me off-guard. The servant girl would never have dared. "Show me the death certificate. The morgue receipts. Something."
"They're being processed…"
"Stop lying to me!" The words explode from her, raw and desperate. "Every time I ask about Tommy, you deflect. You hide things. Just like you hid information about the blackmailers until it was almost too late. What aren't you telling me about my brother?"
The locked drawer pulses with accusation. I've been sloppy, distracted by nearly losing her, forgetting that Emma notices everything. A survival skill from years of being invisible.
"I need to make a call," I say, reaching for my phone though every instinct screams not to turn my back on her. "Territory issue. Five minutes."
