“Because you need him alive. Need him to face justice legally, publicly.” His forehead drops to mine. “But if he comes near you again?—”
“Then we end him together.” My hands slide up his chest, feeling his heart thunder beneath my palms. “Equal partners in violence and everything else.”
His smile is dangerous. Beautiful. “Everything else?”
“Everything.”
We both know our arrangement isn’t fake anymore. We’re just not ready to fully talk about it. Not yet, at least. But when Matthew tried to hurt me, Sergei moved with the kind of protective violence that speaks to something deeper than obligation.
Something terrifying.
Something real.
I kiss him again. Pour everything I can’t say into the press of lips and tongue, the slide of hands and heat of breath. And he responds with equal fervor, pulling me into his lap, consuming me like I’m air, and he’s been drowning.
32
Izzy
"I can makeall of this go away."
Mother's voice cuts through my penthouse like a blade wrapped in Chanel No. 5. She's standing in my living room—uninvited, unwelcome—wearing cream Dior and pearls, like she's attending a charity luncheon, instead of offering deals with the devil.
I don't move from the couch. Don't give her the satisfaction of thinking she's rattled me. "All of what, exactly?"
"The investigation. The media circus. The witch hunt on Matthew." She moves to the bar cart, pouring herself Sergei's scotch like she owns the place. "I have connections, darling. Judges, prosecutors, people who owe me favors. One phone call, and the evidence against Matthew becomes... questionable."
My hand finds Dad's lighter in my pocket. The familiar weight keeps my voice steady. "And in exchange?"
"You divorce Sergei. Marry Cal. Let the adults handle Davenport Holdings." She takes a delicate sip, lipstick leaving a perfect crimson crescent on the glass. "Simple, really. Everyone gets what they wants."
"Except me."
"You get your life back." She turns, ash-blonde hair catching afternoon light streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. Her eyes are cold. Calculating. "No more violence. No more hiding in safe houses with that man's daughter. No more pretending you're something you're not."
She's desperate. I can smell it under the Chanel No. 5—that sharp tang of fear she's trying to hide behind power moves and designer armor. The recording I made at her townhouse has been hanging over her head for weeks. Every word of her confession. Every admission about knowing Matthew was "planning something." She knows I can destroy her with one phone call to the press.
This visit isn't about making deals.
It's about begging.
"What I'm not?" I lean forward, crossing my legs. The Glock holstered at my ankle presses reassuringly against skin. "You mean dangerous? Capable of protecting myself? In love with a man who doesn't treat me like property?"
Mother's laugh is sharp. Brittle. "You think you're in love. How charming. But love doesn't pay for penthouses, Isabelle. It doesn't maintain your lifestyle or protect your inheritance."
"My inheritance that you tried to steal."
"Redistribute," she corrects smoothly, settling into the chair across from me, like we're having tea instead of circling each other like predators. "Your father was going to destroy everything—give it away to bleeding-heart charities, fund women's shelters, instead of securing our legacy. Matthew and I were protecting what generations built."
"By killing him."
"By doing what was necessary." She drains her glass, sets it down with that precise clink that screams old money. "Richard was weak, Isabelle. Sentimental. He would've bankrupted us within five years pursuing his ridiculous philanthropic fantasies."
"We've covered this ground, Mother." I keep my voice flat. Bored. "Your townhouse. Remember? When you admitted you knew Matthew was planning something? When I recorded every word?"
Her face tightens. There it is—the flicker of fear she can't quite hide.
"That recording?—"
