I inhale slowly.Lavender still clings to my skin.
I still smell like her.
And I fucking love it.
No.Nothing happens to her.Nothing.
If I have to find her shitty brother and end him to keep her safe, I will—without hesitation.
But she wouldn’t want that.
So I’ll find another way.
“Ego?”Noel cuts in.“Pay attention.It gets worse.”
“Worse?”I ask flatly.“How?”
“We intercepted chatter and verified it through Interpol.There’s movement.And they’re not being subtle.”
I stiffen.“Hammerfall?”
“No.This is black-market,” he says.“Whoever Marco sold the keys to—and then shorted.It’s bad.”
My throat tightens.“Who?”
A beat.
“Chekhov.”
Fuck.
I know that bastard.
Old-country Bratva.
No honor code.No lines.No mercy.
Chekhov is the kind of man who’d slice the pretty smooth, skin right off Sabrina to gain leverage on her asshole brother without blinking.
Not on my fucking watch.
“Where is he?”I ask.
“Landed in Newark last night under the alias John Snow.”
My fingers curl hard around each other.
Fuck.This is bad.
“You think he’s here for her?”
“I think she’s part of it,” Noel says.“Bait.Leverage.Or both.This is bigger than we thought—old alliances, buried debts.And your girl’s sitting right in the middle of it.”
“I’m not letting anything happen to her.”
“Good,” Noel replies.“Because your orders are to stick to her like a second skin.After school today, she’s taking a vacation.We’re clearing it with the principal now.”
“Roger that.”
