"Let me have Maks investigate," I tried again, reaching for compromise. "He can trace the phone, check surveillance cameras around the bodega, verify if Mrs. Zi is actually in danger. We can get information without exposing you."
"How long will that take?"
"A few hours. By morning—"
"Frank could be dead by morning."
"Frank could already be dead." The brutal truth, but it needed saying. "Or he could be sitting at home playing video games while someone uses his name to bait you. We don't know, and acting without information is how people die."
She went quiet at that, processing. I could see her medical mind taking over, running diagnostics, weighing outcomes. The doctor in her understood triage, understood that sometimes you couldn't save everyone.
"Promise me," she said finally, voice small. "Promise you'll have Maks check. Tonight. Not tomorrow, not when it's convenient. Tonight."
"I promise," I said immediately. "I'll call him right now if you want."
Something shifted in her expression. A settling, like she'd made a decision. "Okay."
The word was too calm. Too final. But I was so focused on the external threat, on managing the crisis, that I missed the warning signs.
"Okay?" I repeated, suspicious but not suspicious enough.
"You're right. It's probably a trap. And even if it's not, I can't help anyone if I'm captured." She moved toward me, let me pull her into my arms. "Have Maks check. If Frank really needs help, send your men. Just... don't let him die because of me."
"I won't," I promised, pressing a kiss to her hair. She smelled like vanilla and something distinctly Maya, that scent that had become home in just a few days.
She pulled back, looked up at me with those hazel eyes that saw too much. "I'm tired. The crash from the nursery, this stress... can we just go to bed?"
Every instinct I'd developed over thirty years of violence should have been screaming. The sudden capitulation, the too-easy agreement, the request to sleep when adrenaline should have had her wired for hours. But she'd been running for six months. Of course she was tired. Of course she wanted to shut down rather than continue fighting about something she couldn't control.
"Of course, kitten," I said, already reaching for my phone to text Maks. "Let me send this message, then we'll sleep."
Dinnerarrivedfortyminuteslater—Georgian food from the place in Brighton Beach that stayed open late, the owner too smart to ask why the Besharov enforcer needed delivery at midnight. Khachapuri, khinkali, enough food for four.
She sat across from me at the small table by the window, cutting the cheese-filled bread with mechanical precision. One bite, chew, swallow. Another bite, chew, swallow. Like eating was a task to complete rather than something her body needed.
"It's good," she said when I watched her too long, but her voice had that distant quality I recognized from the clinic. Doctor voice. Professional distance activated to keep messy emotions at bay.
"You don't have to finish it all," I said, though usually I had to convince her to eat anything.
"I know." Another mechanical bite. Her eyes stayed focused on the food, not meeting mine. "Maks responded?"
I'd shown her his text—received, investigating, will update within hours. She'd nodded, said "good," and hadn't mentioned it again. Now she was asking just to fill silence, going through the motions of normal conversation.
"He's checking traffic cameras first," I explained, though she hadn't asked for details. "Then he'll tap into our network, see if anyone's heard about movements near the bodega. If something's happening, we'll know."
"Efficient," she said, that same distant tone. Like we were discussing medical procedures rather than the potential death of someone she cared about.
The medical mask was firmly in place—that professional facade she'd worn when stitching my arm, when dealing with trauma that would break most people. But this felt different. Deeper. Like she wasn't just distancing herself from the situation but from me, from us, from everything we'd built.
"Maya." I reached across the table, covered her hand with mine. Her fingers were cold despite the warm room. "Talk to me."
"About what?" She finally looked up, and her eyes were carefully empty. "You were right. It's a trap. We're handling it appropriately. There's nothing else to discuss."
The words were all correct, but the delivery was wrong. Too calm. Too accepting. Like she'd already processed all the stages of grief and come out the other side numb.
"You're allowed to be upset," I tried. "About Frank, about the situation—"
"Being upset doesn't change anything." She turned her hand under mine, not pulling away but not engaging either. "You taught me that. Emotions compromise decision-making. So I'm choosing not to have them right now."
