Bella blows out a breath, focusing. “Okay, baby. Let’s go.”
She slides out of the booth, lifts Lily onto her hip, and heads toward the restroom. I track them until the door closes behind them. The diner feels louder without them—plates clinking, fryer hissing, some song from ten years ago playing too low over the speakers.
I sit back, fingers drumming once against the table, then still. Their half-finished food is in front of me. Her drink, the little damp ring it’s left on the laminate. Lily’s crown from the kids’ menu, crushed in the middle where she gripped it too tightly.
What are you doing, Antonov?
I know the answer, even if I don’t want to look at it too closely.
I’m supposed to be good at distance. At cutting things off cleanly. At seeing risk and walking away while it’s still small. That’s how I stayed alive long enough to become the kind of man other people whisper about.
But with them…I’m already past the line.
I picture Bella’s face when the glass shattered. The way she curled around her child without a thought for herself. The way her hands shook but she held on anyway. I picture Lily’s little fingers grabbing my sleeve. The way she said Papa like it was the most obvious word in the world.
I could drop them in New York. Hand them their safety like an envelope. Walk away. Tell myself it’s mercy.
I know I’m not going to.
The bench dips beside me. Nikolai slides into the booth, coffee in hand, eyes scanning the diner once before settling on me.
“You look like hell,” he says mildly.
“You drive like it,” I counter.
He huffs something like a laugh, then sobers. “What’s the plan when we hit the city?”
“Hotel first,” I say.
He nods, unsurprised. “And after that? You going to drop them where they need to go?”
I don’t answer right away.
His brows lift a fraction. “Aleksander.”
“No,” I say finally.
He studies me, really studies me. “No as in ‘not yet’ or ‘not at all’?”
I take a slow breath. “No as in I’m not dropping them anywhere like they’re a parcel. They stay under my protection until I’m satisfied this is over. Completely. Whoever sent that car—whoever decided to take a shot at us on open road—they’re still breathing. That’s a problem.”
Nikolai takes a sip of his coffee, watching me over the rim. “Protection,” he repeats. “That what we’re calling it.”
I give him a flat look. “You have something to say, say it.”
He shrugs. “I’ve seen you extend protection before. It doesn’t usually involve kids’ stickers on your sleeve.”
I glance down. The smiling burger is still there, slightly crooked. I don’t peel it off.
“She’s not just some civilian I used as cover,” I say quietly. “She’s…mine.”
I don’t mean it in the way I do when I talk about soldiers or lieutenants or assets.
Nikolai shakes his head, something like fond exasperation in the movement. “You’ve taken territory with less preparation than you’ve put into this woman.”
“She’s not territory,” I say. “She’s…a problem I don’t want solved.”
He goes quiet at that. He’s known me long enough to hear the weight under it.
