I had him reset it, taking it out of the old-fashioned setting my father chose, and putting it in a modern piece. Something Lila would wear instead of something from before she was born.
Good. I'll need it tomorrow.
Tomorrow? That fast?
I don't answer. I pocket the phone and go back to watching the docks for either a proposal or a funeral.
Either I find her alive and put that ring on her finger after putting a bullet through Dmitri's skull. Ask her properly this time. Do it right.
Or I find her dead and bury her with it. Then burn this entire city to the ground, starting with Dmitri and ending with anyone who ever worked for him, leaving nothing but ash and blood and bodies.
Tomorrow. The word sits heavy in my mind.
No ships are leaving today. I checked the weather reports three times. Storm warnings for Lake Michigan. Small craft advisories. Commercial vessels delayed. Even Dmitri wouldn't risk shipping her in these conditions. There’s too much attention if something goes wrong, too many Coast Guard patrols checking on distressed boats.
He couldn't have shipped her yesterday. That’d be too fast—he'd need time to arrange the buyer, prepare the transport, and coordinate with Moscow.
So tomorrow. If the weather clears. If conditions allow.
Tomorrow I'll be here. Watching. Waiting.
Tomorrow I'll get her back.
And tomorrow I'll put this ring on her finger.
I pull out my phone and text Misha.
His response comes fast.Understood, Boss. We'll be ready.
I pocket the phone and settle back into the shadows to watch the water.
Tomorrow.
28
LILA
I'm waking up.
Actually waking up. Which means… I slept?
How the hell did I sleep?
The last I remember, I was sitting on the bed, staring at the concrete. Thinking myself into madness—about Ivan, about Dmitri, about whether love can exist in a world where everything's bought, sold, or broken. Hours of it. Endless loops of what-ifs and worst cases.
I didn't think my brain would ever let go. I figured fear would keep me wired forever.
But exhaustion doesn't care about existential crises. It still drags you under.
I sit up. My shoulders ache from sleeping twisted, my head stuffed with fog, and my throat's dry and raw. The candle on the side table has burned lower since I was last awake.
The red lace is still in place. Still a mockery of clothing. I feel stripped, even while covered. Exposed. Reduced to what someone wanted me to be.
I pull at it, though it doesn't help. There's not enough fabric to cover anything that matters.
That's when I see him again.
Dmitri sits in the same chair as yesterday. Same ugly red suit. But everything else is different. The smirk is gone, replaced by a meaner edge.
