“Mr. Orlov, sources say you assaulted at least three men inside?—”
“Are the rumors about Bratva involvement accurate?”
I stop on the steps, Sergei beside me, and face the cameras. Dad’s lighter sits heavy in my pocket. He taught me to face problems head-on. Time to practice what he preached.
“My uncle, Matthew Ashford, is under investigation for conspiracy to commit murder and fraud,” I say clearly. “Heorchestrated my father’s death and attempted to seize control of Davenport Holdings through illegal means. Evidence has been turned over to NYPD. I have no doubt that as soon as they confirm its legality, he will be arrested. No further questions at this time.”
“What about the violence?—”
“My husband defended me when security personnel, hired by my uncle, attempted to physically bar me from a legally mandated board meeting.” I look directly into the nearest camera. “I have no apologies for that. We’re done here.”
Sergei’s hand finds mine as we descend the steps. Cameras catch it—that moment of connection, of solidarity. Tomorrow, the headlines will scream about The Wolf and his heiress wife. About violence in corporate America. About the dangerous marriage between old money and organized crime.
Let them.
I’m done pretending to be something I’m not.
My old penthousefeels like sanctuary after the chaos. I pour two fingers of Dad’s scotch—medicinal, I tell myself—and sink onto the couch. Through floor-to-ceiling windows, Central Park stretches endlessly, green and peaceful and utterly disconnected from the violence of the morning.
Sergei appears from the bedroom, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The tattoos on his forearms catch lamplight—wolves and roses and Cyrillic script I still haven’t asked him to translate.
“Mila’s with Andrei until tomorrow,” he says, settling beside me. Close enough that his thigh presses against mine. “Safe house on Long Island. She wanted to come home, but?—”
“But we don’t know if Matthew has backup plans.” I take a long drink, letting the burn ground me. “Smart.”
“How are you?”
“Tired. Wired. Weirdly elated?” I laugh, sharp and slightly unhinged. “I just watched my uncle getting his ass kicked. That should feel like victory, right? So why do I feel...”
“Empty,” Sergei finishes. “Because revenge doesn’t fill the hole they left. Just stops the bleeding.”
I turn to face him. His eyes are knowing, ancient. He’s lived this—the aftermath of violence, the hollow satisfaction of justice served cold.
“Your father’s death won’t hurt less once Matthew’s in jail,” he continues quietly. “But at least you know he’ll pay for what he did.”
“Will he?” Bitterness leaks into my voice. “Men like Matthew have lawyers. Money. Connections. What if he walks?”
“He won’t.” Sergei’s hand finds my jaw, thumb tracing my cheekbone with devastating gentleness. “Wesley has enough evidence to bury him. And if the legal system fails?—”
“You’ll handle it.”
“I’ll handle it.” No hesitation. No moral wrestling. Just simple, lethal truth.
I should be horrified. Should object to murder as a backup plan. But all I feel is relief that someone else is willing to do what’s necessary. To carry the weight I’m not sure I can bear alone.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “For today. For defending me. For?—”
He kisses me. Hard. Claiming. His hand slides into my hair, fingers tightening until it’s almost painful, and I melt into him because this is what I need. Not gentle. Not careful. Raw and real and undeniable.
“You don’t thank me for protecting what’s mine,” he says roughly when he pulls back, breathing hard.
What’s mine.The possessive should irritate me. Should trigger feminist outrage about ownership and autonomy. But coming from him, it’s such an incredible turn-on.
“Yours,” I echo. Testing the word. Tasting it.
“Mine.” His thumb traces my lower lip. “The second your uncle reached for you, the second he tried to hurt you—” His jaw clenches. “I wanted to kill him, Isabelle. Right there in that boardroom with cameras and witnesses and your entire corporate structure watching.”
“But you didn’t.”
