“Then they’ll learn what it means to come for The Wolf’s family. No one walks away from that gala alive, if they threaten what’s mine. No one.”
“Understood. I’ll have men positioned on every exit. Snipers on adjacent rooftops. If Matthew makes a move, we end him before he breathes wrong.”
I sip the whiskey as I watch darkness creep across Brooklyn and think about the gala. About Matthew’s face when he realizes we’re not victims anymore. About the moment Izzy gets to watch him fall.
Two days.
Two days until we end this.
Two days until The Wolf reminds Manhattan why they used to fear my name.
I finish the whiskey and head upstairs. Izzy’s asleep in our bed, dark hair spread across my pillow, one hand clutched around something gold that gleams in the darkness.
Her father’s lighter.
Even in sleep, she holds onto it. Onto him. Onto the memory of the man whose murder started this entire war.
I slip into bed beside her, careful not to wake her, and she automatically curls into me. Her hand opens, releasing the lighter, and I catch it before it falls.
I set the lighter on the nightstand, then I pull Izzy closer, breathing in vanilla and flowers and the scent of home.
Two days.
We just have to survive two more days.
35
Izzy
“The court has scheduleda competency hearing for tomorrow morning.”
Diane’s voice crackles through my phone, and I nearly drop my coffee mug. It’s barely 7 a.m.
“Tomorrow?” My stomach drops. “As in the day of the gala?”
“Wednesday morning, 9 a.m. Your mother filed the motion yesterday, claiming you’re mentally unfit to make legal decisions. Judge agreed to an emergency hearing given the urgency of the inheritance timeline.”
The timing isn’t coincidental. Mother wants me in court, stressed and distracted, hours before we face Matthew at the gala.
“She’s trying to throw me off balance.”
“Probably. She’s got two psychiatrists willing to testify that your recent behavior—the violence, the isolation, the quote ‘erratic decision-making’—indicates a mental health crisis requiring intervention.”
“Paid psychiatrists. Who’ve never met me. Who are basing their testimony on whatever lies my mother has fed them.”
“Probably. But it doesn’t matter. The motion’s filed. We have twenty-four hours to prepare a defense, or you’ll be in front of the judge tomorrow morning.”
I close my eyes, breathing through the rage building in my chest. Mother’s playing dirty now. Desperate. She’s trying to paint me as crazy.
“What do we need?”
“Character witnesses. Medical records proving you’re stable. Ideally, your own psychiatric evaluation from someone credible who can testify you’re of sound mind.” Diane pauses. “Izzy, this is serious. If the judge rules against you, everything falls apart. The marriage, the inheritance, your legal standing. Your mother becomes your conservator pending evaluation, which means she controls everything.”
Over my dead body.
“I’ll handle it.” I hang up before she can argue.
Behind me, footsteps on the stairs. Sergei appears in the doorway, silver-threaded hair disheveled from sleep, wearing nothing but grey sweatpants that hang low on his hips. The tattoos on his torso are on full display—wolves and roses and Cyrillic script I still haven’t asked him to translate.
