My heart lodges in my throat.
The trust is sizable. Not just enough to ease worry, or provide security, but enough to build a future. Enough to build independence. Enough to make sure Andrea would never suffer for anything—not education, not safety, not care.
It’s not the only document. Behind it is a notarized letter from his lawyer stating a transfer of inheritance “in the event of incapacitation.” A home held in our names, a long list of assets. Another large sum earmarked for Louise, for Kat, for Peter.
He planned all of this.
He planned all of this quietly. Thoroughly. It comes back to me then—that day in town, at the lawyer’s office. His asking that I stay outside. Wasthiswhat that was about?
Did he expect war, even then?
Does he think he might not come back?
My hands shake as I turn another page and find a smaller envelope tucked between the files. My name isn’t on it, but Andrea’s is.
Her full name written in Makari’s handwriting, the letters careful and slanted. Beneath it, three words:
Just in case.
I press a hand to my mouth. For a moment, I can’t open it. I’m afraid of the softness inside, afraid of what he would leave her if he thought she’d grow up without him.
When I finally slide the letter from the envelope, the first line almost breaks me.
My sweet girl, I am sorry I missed six years of your life. I did not know you existed, and that is a regret I will carry longer than anything else I have done.
If I could change anything, I would have found you sooner. I would have learned your favorite colors, your fears, your dreams. I hope you forgive me for the time I lost.
A low sob breaks loose. I fold the letter against my chest, sinking to the floor because my knees can’t hold the weight ofthis man and what he’s become in my life. What he’s become to my daughter. The thought of losing him tonight feels like a hollowness opening inside my sternum.
I don’t know how long I sit there, breathing in the soft scent of him, trying not to unravel completely.
A crash interrupts everything.
Shattering glass.
I jolt upright, heart slamming against my ribs. Voices shout down the hallway—men yelling in Russian, the crack of gunfire punching through the air with terrifying clarity.
Another shot. Then another. A heavy body hits the ground.
Then silence.
For one split, unbearable heartbeat, the estate holds its breath again.
I grab the nearest heavy object I can reach—a carved marble statue from Mak’s bookshelf—and grip it two-handed, pulse roaring in my ears. Footsteps approach the suite. They’re staggered, dragging. Someone wounded? I back into the shadow beside the door, breathing so quietly it hurts.
The lock clicks.
The door bursts open.
One of Mak’s guards collapses inside, blood pouring from his side. He tries to lift his weapon, but another figure shoves him forward and he falls in a heap.
Eric steps over him.
Eric—sweaty, frantic, eyes too bright. He’s holding a gun in one hand, trembling hard enough that the barrel jerks with each breath. Behind him, three men filter in. Armed strangers—not Bratva.
They must be part of the Chicago syndicate.
They killed two of the guards. My stomach lurches. Eric scans the room, wild-eyed, not seeing me yet. “Check the back,” he snaps at one of the men. “Find her. She has to be here.”
