Silvia just whistles, low and long. "Della... That’s... wow."
I lift the necklace from the box. It’s cool against my skin.
This isn't just a gift.
It'sunderstanding.
* * *
Dorian
The Chicago skyline is a row of steel teeth against a bruised purple sky, but I don't see it. I barely see anything that isn't the ghost of her face.
Leaving her on that beach was the hardest surrender of my life. The distance was supposed to help with the pain but it doesn’t.
I need to work and exhaust myself so I don’t think of Della, of this emptiness I feel since I left her. My office is dark, the only light coming from the glowing screen of David's laptop. I’ve been driving David to the brink of collapse, demanding constant updates, constant movement. The only peace I find is in control, and the only thing I can control right now is the destruction of our enemy.
"He's tangled in deep," David says, his voice a low, dispassionate rumble. "He's in debt—gambling, mostly. Now he's running product to try and pay it off. He's sloppy."
He clicks, and a grainy surveillance photo fills the screen. Andy.
My vision narrows. The man who killed our baby, our dreams and almost killed Della.
The source of the original wound. I can feel that cold, clean, inhuman rage I experienced in the warehouse bubbling beneath my skin.
"Where is he?" My voice is flat.
"That's the problem." David closes the laptop, turning to face me in the dark. "We can't just touch him, Dorian. He's under Morozov's protection, I told you. We go in loud; we start a war withthe Bear. That's a war we don't win."
"I don't care," I cut him off, the ice in my voice cracking to show the fire beneath. "I don't care if he's with the goddamn lord of the lords, mafia king. I want him in a hole by the end of the week. I'll do it myself."
David sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He's not just my security; he's the only man alive who can talk me down.
"And then what, Dorian? You kill Andy, you start a war, and you spend the rest of your life in jail or looking over your shoulder? Is that the future you're offering Della? Is that what she gets to come back to?"
His words are a bucket of ice water.Della.He's right, and I hate him for it.
I sink back into my chair, the feral rage simmering down to a low, lethal burn.
"Then what? We let him walk?"
"No," David says, a tactical gleam in his eye. "We don't let him walk. We let Morozov take him out for us. We just... make a request first."
I look at him, listening.
"He's reckless and desperate," David continues. "My gut says he's stealing from them. I'm 99% sure. I just need time to get that undeniable proof. He's gone to ground for now, but he'll be back soon, looking for a score."
"And when you have the proof?" I ask.
"We set up a meeting. Not with Morozov, but with his right hand. We present the evidence as a... professional courtesy. We show them how Andy is a liability and a rat who's about to bring our kind of attention to their operation. And then we make a simple, reasonable request."
I'm following now, the cold logic seeping in. "The request."
"We tell them,'Our associate has a personal, pre-existing grievance with this man. Before you dispose of your trash, we request one hour of his time. For the favor, and for the evidence, we'll even deliver him to you.'"
It's clean. It's smart. But it's missing one thing.
"One condition," I say. "When we have him—I want him to know it's me. I want him to know why this is happening. And when the Russians show up to finish it... I want him to knowIsent them. He doesn't just get to die. He gets to die knowing I was the one who arranged it all."
