"I'll take your laptop to the office while you change," Anton says, nodding toward where it sits on the kitchen counter.
As Anton carries me toward the bedroom, I loop my arms around his neck, breathing in his bergamot scent.
I can't help but study his face, the sharp angles, and that teardrop tattoo that tells a silent story of grief. There's something so inherently male about the way he moves through the world—confident, powerful, protective.
"All you Basov men have really impressed me," I say as he sets me gently on the bed. "The way you treat your women. The respect, the love." I run my fingers along the edge of his T-shirt that I'm still wearing. "The Quinn men are shit, including my father. He's had a parade of mistresses."
Anton's eyebrow raises slightly.
"It's why my mother spends all the time she can in Europe," I continue. "She was forced to marry him, to give him children. He's never really loved her." I sigh. "I used to be so angry at her for leaving, but eventually I learned to understand her."
Anton sits beside me, the mattress dipping under his weight. "Did you not go with her?"
"As young girls, we used to," I explain, remembering those early years. "We had someone homeschool us during those trips. But as Moira and I got older, we craved some freedom. Dad allowed us to go to regular school, where we made a few friends." I smile, thinking of those simpler days. "Plus, Sage's mother filled the void of not having a mom around much."
Anton's hand finds mine, his thumb tracing small circles on my skin.
"Roman, our Pakhan, doesn't tolerate mistreatment of women," he says, his voice taking on that formal tone he uses when discussing Bratva business. "He doesn't dictate what his men do with their personal lives, but once someone is married, he doesn't tolerate games that could compromise the Basovs."
I look up at him, intrigued by this glimpse into his world.
"Women have a high place with the Basovs," Anton continues. "You know, the next in line to become the head of the Basov Bratva wasn't Roman, it was his mother, Yelena."
"Really?" This surprises me. The criminal world isn't exactly known for its gender equality.
Anton nods. "She decided to give it to her son once her father passed. Mrs. Yelena Basov still has a strong say in the business,and Roman respects that." His lips quirk slightly. "Now, she enjoys being a babushka."
The Russian word rolls naturally off his tongue, and something warms inside me hearing his native language.
"Even though I am not a Basov," Anton says, his fingers lifting to brush my cheek, "the Bratva sees me as family. And as such, you will have a high place by my side."
"By your side. I like the sound of that."
His eyes darken, and I see the struggle there, the need to get back to Yuri and address the threat, warring with his desire to stay with me.
I tell him, "That motherfucking Volgograd problem isn't going to solve itself, and I want to help."
Anton leans forward, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "You are extraordinary, Fee Quinn."
I smile up at him. "And don't you forget it."
As Anton leaves the bedroom, I'm struck by the sudden quiet. The person hunting us is methodical. Creating false identities. Manufacturing evidence. Staging elaborate traps.
We need to beat them at their own game.
If they're constructing realities to get to us, we need to do the same. Build a narrative they'll believe, one that puts them exactly where we want them. Bait them into the open where Anton can end this.
I grab my phone, needing to check on Moira before diving into this mess. I text:How are you feeling?
While changing out of Anton's shirt, my phone pings with Moira's reply:The headache is better, but it won't go away.
I frown, texting back:Have you called your doctor?
Her response comes quickly:He's sending someone.
My fingers freeze over the phone screen as realization strikes like lightning.
Blood pressure issues. Headaches. A killer who monitors everything and manipulates finances, who likely knows every move we make.
