The question cuts deeper than he probably intends. I set down my glass and stare at the ruby liquid inside.
“Guilt,” I admit. “My brothers spent years protecting me. Sending me away to keep me safe. And I took that safety and used it to build a life that had nothing to do with them. While they were here, dealing with threats and violence and everything that comes with our name, I was in London pretending I was normal. Pretending I didn’t come from blood money and power. When I came back for Alexei’s wedding and saw the trouble they were facing, I couldn’t walk away.”
Tony reaches across the table and takes my hand. His palm is calloused and warm. “Your brothers wanted you to have options. They sent you away so you could become something other than a Bratva princess. And you did. You became brilliant at something legitimate that has nothing to do with crime or violence.”
“But I abandoned them?—”
“You did what they wanted. You built something safe. Something clean. That’s not abandonment; that’s honoring the sacrifice they made to give you choices.”
My throat tightens. Nobody has ever framed it that way. In my head, leaving Moscow has always been an act of selfishness. Running away from responsibility while my brothers shouldered the weight of our family name.
But Tony’s right. Dmitri and Alexei pushed me toward London. They paid for my education, my apartment, and my entire life there. They wanted me to escape the world they were trapped in.
“How do you understand that so well?” I ask. “Family loyalty, I mean. Most people don’t.”
“Because I had someone who sacrificed everything so I could have options, too. My uncle could have sent me into the foster system when my parents died. It would have been easier for him.But he took in a traumatized kid and taught him how to survive. Gave up his quiet retirement so I could have a chance.”
“And you became CIA.”
“I became a lot of things. Not all of them good.” He releases my hand and picks up his wine. “But I understand what it means to owe someone everything. To feel like you can never repay what they gave you.”
We finish dinner talking about lighter things. Favorite cities. Worst travel experiences. Movies we’ve seen too many times. By the time we leave the restaurant, it’s nearly midnight, and the streets are quiet and cold.
The hotel is a short walk away. It’s nice, but not extravagant. Dmitri booked it through a shell company that can’t be traced back to our family.
Tony opens the door to our room, and we freeze.
A single piece of paper lies on the carpet just inside the threshold. White, folded once, with my name written on the front in neat cursive—too neat. Like someone practicing being anonymous.
Tony pulls me back into the hallway and draws his weapon. He clears the room quickly, checking every corner before returning to the doorway.
“It’s empty.”
I pick up the note with trembling fingers and unfold it.
You should have stayed in London, little Kozlov. Now, it’s too late.
The words are simple, but the threat is not.
“Someone knows we’re here,” I say.
“Someone knows everywhere we go.” Tony takes the note from my hand and studies it. “This is escalating.”
Part of me is scared. But standing in this hotel doorway with Tony’s body angled protectively in front of mine, I realize something unexpected.
I’m falling for a man who makes me feel safe without making me feel weak. A man who understands family and sacrifice and the weight of impossible choices.
A man who might be lying to me about everything.
12
Tony
I hold the paper to the lamp on the hotel desk and eye the pressure marks where the pen was pressed harder on certain letters.
The ink is standard blue ballpoint, probably from a cheap hotel pen. But the script tells a different story.
Whoever wrote this has training.
