By the time they start asking the right questions, though, my lawyer will already be moving. He always does. He’ll have the timelines mapped down to the minute, boarding scans pulled, seat numbers confirmed. He’ll remind them that I was in first class when Kirov died, that a cabin full of witnesses saw me nowhere near him. He’ll point out that arguments aren’t crimes, that history isn’t evidence, that suspicion isn’t proof.
Ironclad. That’s his word. He likes to say it with a smile.
I stare out the window, jaw tight, watching the city blur past. None of that changes the fact that Bella is sitting beside me, wrapped up in all of this without understanding even half of it. Her head is bowed, one hand absently stroking her daughter’s hair, the other still tangled with mine like she’s afraid if she lets go, something worse will happen.
This is the part my lawyer doesn’t account for.
The collateral damage.
I feel the familiar weight settle in my chest, the one that comes when I know I’ve crossed another line I can’t uncross. I can survive the cops. I can survive the questions. I can survive Kirov’s ghost coming back to haunt me in interrogation rooms and court filings.
What I don’t know is whether Bella can.
I glance down at her, at the crease between her brows, the way she’s trying so hard to stay calm for her child. She looks up, catching my gaze, eyes searching mine for answers I still haven’t given.
“It’s going to be okay,” I say quietly. I don’t know if I’m convincing her or myself.
She nods, but there’s doubt there. She’s not stupid. She knows I’m dangerous. She just doesn’t know how dangerous yet—or how far I’m willing to go to keep her out of the fallout.
The car speeds through the night, and I let my fingers tighten around hers, a silent promise.
It’s not the cops that cause trouble, it’s the people in my world. And now I’ve dragged Bella right into it.
9
BELLA
The car is too quiet.
The city slides past the windows in streaks of light, unfamiliar streets, unfamiliar signs. Boston. The word keeps echoing in my head, wrong and unreal. My daughter is curled against me, half-awake now, arms tight around my waist like she senses my fear. I hold her close, breathing her in, grounding myself.
Something is terribly wrong.
The way we left the plane. The way Aleksander didn’t explain, didn’t slow down, didn’t let me think. We’re hours away from New York, moving fast through a city I don’t know, alone with a man who feels both protective and dangerous in equal measure.
I look at him.
He’s sitting beside me, shoulders tense, jaw set, phone in his hand. His thumb moves quickly across the screen as he texts someone, attention split, eyes flicking up every few seconds to take in the road, the mirrors, the driver. He looks calm, but it’s the kind of calm that feels coiled, ready.
“Who are you?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
He doesn’t answer right away. He finishes the message, locks the phone, then exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath for a while. Still, he doesn’t look at me.
“I can’t go with you,” I say, the fear finally breaking through. My voice shakes. “Aleksander, I can’t. We’re in Boston. This isn’t my city. I don’t know anyone here.”
He turns then, finally meeting my eyes. “I’m taking you to New York.”
“That’s not what I mean,” I whisper. “I mean…like this. Leaving the airport. Running. This feels wrong.”
“You’re not safe alone,” he says simply.
The certainty in his voice makes my stomach drop. “We could have just caught the next flight,” I argue, even though I already know the answer. “Why did we leave the airport?”
He looks back toward the windshield. “Because it would’ve taken hours. Police questioning everyone on that plane. Immigration, security, statements, delays.”
“Someone was murdered,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Yeah,” he replies. He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t soften it.
