Worth killing for.
I slip the lighter into my pocket and follow Sergei inside, ready for whatever comes next.
Tomorrow, everything will change.
36
Izzy
"Tomorrow we end this."
Sergei's voice cuts through the silence, and I turn from the window where I've been watching Brooklyn pretend everything's normal. Like tomorrow, I'm not walking into a ballroom full of people who want me dead. Like I haven't spent the past hour mentally cataloguing exit routes at The Plaza and wondering which expensive flower arrangement I'll be hiding behind when the shooting starts.
He's sitting on the edge of our bed, elbows on knees, hands clasped. Praying probably. To gods who stopped taking calls from men like him around the time he made his first kill.
"Tomorrow, we end this," I agree, because what else is there to say?
The gala. Matthew. Mother. Cal. Three hundred of Manhattan's wealthiest gathered to throw money at charity while my family tries to murder me over canapés.
Just another Wednesday.
I cross to him, bare feet silent on hardwood that probably costs more than most people's mortgage. My nightgown—silk, La Perla, black because I'm not an amateur—barely covers anything important. His eyes track every step.
Those slate-grey eyes that have watched me transform from grieving heiress into whatever the hell I am now. Someone who shoots people in diners. Someone who blackmails judges. Someone who's about to walk into her own execution wearing Louboutins and a smile.
He doesn't say I'm beautiful.
He says: "You're terrified."
Fucker knows me too well.
"I'm…" I search for the lie. Can't find it. "Yeah. I'm fucking terrified."
"Good." His hands grip my waist, pulling me between his legs. "Means you'll stay sharp."
"Is that what we're calling it?" My laugh sounds wrong. Too high. "I've been checking the weapons cache every twenty minutes. Can't eat. Can't sleep. Keep seeing Matthew's face when he realizes we know everything. Except in my head he's shooting me and I'm?—"
"Hey." His hands tighten. "None of that."
"None of what? Acknowledging reality? Matthew's not going to surrender quietly. Mother said he's been meeting with professionals from Chicago. The kind who don't fail. This isn't intimidation, Sergei. This is?—"
"A war. I know." He tilts my face up, forcing me to meet his eyes. "But we're not walking in blind. We're not unprepared. And we're sure as hell not victims."
I want to believe him.
Want to feel the certainty he's projecting instead of this crawling dread that's been eating me alive since we decided on this insane plan.
"What if it goes wrong?" The words tumble out. "What if you get hit? What if I freeze? What if Mila ends up orphaned because we were too fucking stubborn to just send everything to Detective Fraser and let the system handle it?"
"The system doesn't handle people like Matthew." His thumb brushes my jaw. Gentle. At odds with everything he is. "The system protects them. Gives them lawyers and appeals and minimum security where they play tennis until they buy their way out."
"I know that. I do. But?—"
"But nothing." He stands, and suddenly he's in my space, crowding me back until my shoulders hit the wall. Caging me in. "Listen to me, Isabelle. Matthew Ashford killed your father. Tried to kill you four separate times. Put a fucking sniper on my daughter. Tomorrow, we end him. Publicly. Permanently. And we walk out of that gala together. You, me, and the life we're building. That's not hope. That's fact."
"You can't promise?—"
"I can." His mouth hovers near mine. "Because I'm very good at my job. And my job tomorrow is keeping you alive long enough to watch your uncle bleed."
