Izzy follows us upstairs, settling into the chair by Mila’s window while I tuck her in. The routine’s practiced now—blankets adjusted, stuffed wolf positioned, night-light on.
“Story?” Mila asks hopefully.
“One. Short.” I sit on the edge of her bed. “Which one?”
“The one about the princess and the wolf.”
I glance at Izzy, catching the small smile playing at her lips. This is Mila’s favorite recently—a story I made up a few days ago about a princess who befriends a dangerous wolf, and they protect each other from enemies who want to destroy them both.
She doesn’t know it’s about us. Or maybe she does, and that’s why she requests it.
I tell the story, voice low and soothing, watching my daughter’s eyes grow heavy. By the time the princess and wolf defeat the evil sorcerer, she’s breathing deep and even, lost to dreams that hopefully don’t include dead bodies and blood-stained hands.
I press a kiss to her forehead. “Sleep well,ptichka.”
Izzy rises, following me out. We leave the door cracked, night-light casting soft shadows, and head downstairs in silence.
In the kitchen, Izzy pours two glasses of whiskey. She hands me one, and we stand at the counter, drinking in companionable silence while burnt cookies cool on a rack.
“Andrei called while you were putting her down,” she says quietly. “Matthew withdrew two hundred thousand from one of his accounts. Cash. Wesley’s tracking it but?—”
“He’s paying for something big.” I down the whiskey, letting the burn ground me. “Hiring outside contractors. Professional hitters who won’t be traced back to him.”
“So we’re walking into a trap at the gala.”
“We’re walking into a war. And I need to know you’re ready for that. Ready to kill if necessary. Ready to watch me kill. Ready to stand in the aftermath and not break.”
“I’ve been ready since the day my father died. Since the moment I realized my mother chose her lover over her daughter. Since Matthew put a sniper on your child.” She moves closer, invading my space the way she always does lately. “I’m not breaking, Sergei. I’m burning. And at that gala, I’m going to watch Matthew’s world end and smile while I light my father’s lighter.”
I lean down, capturing her mouth in a kiss that tastes like whiskey and promises and the kind of future we’ll build over Matthew’s corpse.
When we break apart, she traces the scar bisecting my ribs through my shirt. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For handling Artur. For being exactly what this family needs, even when it means getting blood on your hands. For being my monster.”
“Always.” I press my forehead to hers, breathing her in. “Now go to bed. We still have two days until the gala, and I need you rested, focused, and ready to kill anyone who gets between you and survival.”
“What about you?”
“I have calls to make. Security to finalize. Contingencies to plan. I’ll be up in an hour.”
She leaves, padding upstairs in bare feet. I watch until she disappears, then pull out my phone.
Andrei answers on the first ring. “It’s done. Artur’s gone. No traces.”
“Good. Now I need you to run deep backgrounds on every staff member at The Plaza. Servers, security, cleaning crew. If Matthew’s paying someone inside, I want to know before we walk through those doors.”
“Already on it. I’ll have names by tomorrow night.”
“And the weapons?”
“Secured. Hidden in three locations inside the venue. If things go sideways, you’ll have access.” He pauses. “Sergei? This is suicide. Walking into Matthew’s trap with your wife as bait. You know that, right?”
“It’s not suicide, if we’re prepared. And we are. Matthew thinks Artur’s still feeding him intel. Thinks he knows our plan. But everything Artur knew died with him. We’re operating blind now—which means Matthew is, too.”
“And if he’s hired professionals? Real hitters, not the idiots he’s sent before?”
