The interior smells like air freshener and old coffee. The driver glances at me in the rearview mirror, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You okay? You look pale.”
“I’m fine,” I reply quickly. “Just in a hurry.”
He nods and pulls back onto the road. The gate to Luka's estate disappears behind us, swallowed by distance and darkness. I lean my head against the window, watching the trees blur past, and try to slow my breathing.
The city rises around us as we drive, buildings growing taller, and lights multiplying until the streets glow with neon and streetlamps. Seattle at night feels alive in a way that comforts yet terrifies me. So many people. So many places to hide. So many ways this can go wrong.
The driver takes us through quieter neighborhoods, then onto a highway that cuts through the industrial district. Warehouses loom on either side, their windows dark, their walls tagged with graffiti. The water appears in glimpses between buildings, black and restless under the cloudy sky.
“This is the address,” the driver announces, slowing near a cluster of old buildings. “You sure you want to be dropped here? It’s not the safest area.”
“I’m sure,” I reply, already reaching for the door handle. “Thank you.”
He shrugs, pulling to a stop. “Your call. Stay safe.”
I climb out and close the door behind me. The car pulls away, the taillights fading into the distance, leaving me alone on the empty street. The wind picks up, colder here near the water, carrying the smell of salt and oil.
I turn toward the warehouses. Most of them look abandoned, their doors chained and windows broken. But one building at the end of the row has a green door on the south side, just like Hopedescribed. Light seeps through cracks around the frame, faint but unmistakable.
My legs feel leaden as I walk toward it, each step slow and cautious. My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat, my fingertips, and every pulse point along my body. The phone in my pocket vibrates once, a reminder that time is running out.
I reach the green door and pause, my hand hovering over the handle. This is it. The moment where I either save Hope or lose everything. My fingers close around the cold metal, and I pull. The door creaks inward, revealing a dimly lit interior, concrete floors, and metal beams overhead. Shadows pool in every corner. In the center of the room, tied to a chair with duct tape across her mouth, is Hope.
Her eyes widen when she sees me. She tries to speak, the sound muffled and desperate, and thrashes against the ropes binding her wrists. Tears stream down her cheeks, cutting clean tracks through the grime on her face.
“Hope,” I whisper, stepping inside. “I’m here. I’m going to get you out.”
I move toward her, my hands already reaching for the tape across her mouth, when footsteps echo from the darkness behind her. I freeze, my breath catching in my throat.
A man steps into the light.
He is older than I remember, his hair grayer, his face lined with years and choices I can’t fathom. But the shape of his jaw, the color of his eyes, and the way he holds himself hit me with the force of recognition.
He’s my father. Thomas. And he’s alive.
The world tilts sideways. My knees threaten to give out. I grab the side of a nearby crate to keep myself from collapsing, my nails digging into the wood.
“Hello, Sage,” he greets, his voice rougher than it was in my memories. “It’s been a long time.”
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. My brain refuses to process what my eyes are seeing. This can’t be real. He’s dead. Isaak had him killed.
But he’s standing here, alive, watching me with an expression I can’t read.
“No,” I finally manage, the word just a whisper. “You’re dead.”
He shakes his head slowly, a sad smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Not dead,malen'kaya ptichka. Just hidden.”
The nickname lands like a punch.Little bird. My mother's voice echoes in my memory, using the same words, and I feel a piece of me crack wide open.
“Why?” The word tears out of me. “Why would you do this?”
He steps closer, not with softness or remorse, but with a controlled movement that feels predatory. “Because men like Isaak and his son made their choice the night they tried to erase me. I made mine.”
I shake my head. “Erase you? “Luka wasn’t even… he was a child.”
“That never mattered.” His voice sharpens, iron against stone. “A Bratva heir doesn’t need to pull the trigger to be culpable. The Barinovs wanted me gone. They thought killing me would tighten their grip. Instead, it gave me eighteen years to prepare.”
My pulse stutters. “Prepare for what?”
