I offer a weak smile. “Thanks.”
I climb the stairs, key fighting in the lock like always before it gives in. The scent of garlic and tomatoes from Mr. Gutierrez’s salsa fills my senses, lingering in the air.
Maybe I lost a tail. Maybe I imagined one. But I know the feeling of being watched now, and I won’t unlearn it anytime soon.
The apartment greets me with its stubborn little comforts—the thrifted couch, the crooked lamp Clara insisted would give the room character, the struggling plants I’ve been bullying into thriving for Clara. But it’s quiet. Too quiet. The silence isn’t peaceful, it’s absence. Just knowing Clara is at the hospital and not here, not humming in the kitchen or scolding me for leaving shoes in the hall, nearly breaks me.
I drop my bag by the door and drift into her room. The blankets are rumpled, the pillow still carrying the faintest trace of her shampoo. On the nightstand sits the photo album I came for. My throat closes as I pick it up, flipping through page after page of us—me in crooked braids, her all of eighteen and forced to try and be a mother.
I trace my finger over one of the pictures. It’s of the two of us at Coney Island, sand on our legs and sugar on our mouths, both of us pretending we weren’t scared of the ride behind us. My vision blurs. I press the heel of my hand to my forehead, tears cascading down my cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to the empty room. Sorry for the lies, for the bargain I struck with a silver fox devil in a suit. But if it buysher another Christmas, another chance, I’m willing to keep lying until it kills me.
I grab a small duffel from my closet and start filling it with the things that matter most. A sweater that still smells faintly of her, the photo album, my sketchbook, the monogrammed pen Clara gave me when I got my first paycheck. Odds and ends that make me feel less like a guest in my own life. The bag isn’t heavy, but it carries weight all the same.
When I’m done, I glance at the clock on the wall. Almost five-thirty. My stomach flips. If I don’t leave now, I’ll be late getting back to the villa.
I move to the window, push the curtain aside, and scan the street. No sedan. Just the usual mix of kids dragging scooters inside and car headlights of neighbors getting home from work.
Still, I don’t trust it. I pull out my phone and call an Uber. I’m safer that way. My thumb shakes against the screen.
I shoulder the duffel and take one last look at the apartment, at our home. Then I shut the lights and lock the door, already picturing Damien’s face when I walk into the villa. He’ll know I tested the edges of his rules.
I can only hope he won’t be furious. But deep down, I know better.
The only question is how he’ll choose to punish me.
CHAPTER 7
DAMIEN
Night presses cold against the glass. The city burns below in orderly grids of white, amber, and blue.
My closest friend, Alex Durov, is in my office. He’s a cop on both my and the NYPD’s payroll. He stands at the window with his jacket off and tie loosened; wariness stitched into his posture. He never really leaves it at the precinct; it wears him like a second suit.
I pour two fingers of whiskey into tumblers, expensive but subtle, the way I prefer things that matter. No crystal peacocking. No shouting labels. He takes the glass without looking away from the city.
“The families are mostly on the same page,” he says. “Antonov’s in. Sokolov’s tired of the funerals. The Koretsky’s have stopped testing boundaries. They all like checks that clear.”
We’re not talking about street fights or body counts anymore. This is about making the Bratva legitimate—warehouses running as shipping companies, hotels that keep clients safe and quiet, investments that no police raid can touch. The families aretired of blood; they want steady money that lasts. Alex backs me on this plan, even if his brother, Ivan, doesn’t.
I take a sip of whiskey. “Clean fronts bleed less and last longer. Logistics. Hospitality. Real estate. Money that doesn’t drip blood. Books that survive audits. If a man wants legacy more than legend, those are the things he prefers.”
“Some of them still love legend,” Alex says dryly. “But not enough to pay for a dozen funerals a year.”
He turns from the view and sits. The Intelligence Unit has added years to his face. He’s thirty but wears ten more.
“Obschak’s happy,” he continues. “Your new ventures fed on time. Dividends arrived like Christmas. Nobody’s complaining.”
“Somebody is,” I say. “Or you wouldn’t have had a second glass.”
He rolls the whiskey once, amber liquid turning slowly. “Ivan.”
Alex’s brother is high up in the Durov Bratva. Supposedly an ally, but at times, I wonder.
We let the name sit between us. I watch him in the reflection of the window instead of directly.
“What’s he doing?” I ask.
