“Better than okay.” I pull her closer, needing the contact. “I have my daughter. Legally, permanently. No more courts. No more Elena threatening to take her. She’s mine.”
“Ours.” Izzy stops walking, forcing me to face her. “She called me Mom, Sergei. She chose that. Chose me. Chose us.”
“Because you earned it.” My hand finds her jaw, thumb tracing her cheekbone. “You protected her. Fought for her. Became exactly what she needed. That’s not obligation. That’s love.”
Her breath catches. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t make this more complicated than it already is.” But she’s leaning into my touch, eyes dark with want and fear and something that might be hope. “Tonight we face Matthew. Tonight everything could go wrong. I can’t—I can’t think about what this means if we don’t survive.”
“Then don’t think.” I lean down, lips brushing hers in a kiss that tastes like promise and goodbye. “Be here. Now. With me and Mila. Let tomorrow take care of itself.”
She kisses me back, hard and claiming, her fingers fisting in my jacket. When she pulls away, we’re both breathing hard, and a passing jogger wolf-whistles. Izzy flips him off without breaking eye contact with me.
“You make it impossible to stay detached,” she says.
“Good. Detached is boring. Dangerous is better.”
“Dangerous is going to get us killed.”
“Maybe. But at least we’ll die interesting.” I press one more kiss to her forehead before stepping back. “Come on. Our daughter’s waiting.”
Our daughter.The words feel natural now. Right. Like Mila was always meant to be ours, and Elena was a temporary guardian until Izzy could step into the role.
We spend three hours in the park. Mila drags us on the carousel—she rides the purple horse again, making Izzy take the pink one. I stand between them like the world’s most overdressed carnival security. We get hot dogs from a vendor, who definitely recognizes me but wisely says nothing. Mila challenges Izzy to a swing competition that ends with both of them dizzy and laughing.
I watch from a bench, cataloguing every moment. The way Izzy’s face transforms when she’s genuinely happy. How Mila mimics Izzy’s gestures without realizing it. The easy affection between them that developed somewhere between bullets and bedtime stories.
This is what I’m protecting tonight. This exact thing.
My phone buzzes. Andrei.
Security sweep complete. Plaza’s clean. Matthew’s crew arrived an hour ago—three men, Chicago contractors. Professional. Expect trouble.
I show Izzy the text. Her jaw tightens.
“We should go home,” she says quietly. “Get ready. Run through the plan one more time.”
“Yeah.” I stand, calling to Mila. “Time to head out,ptichka.”
She pouts but doesn’t argue, taking my hand on one side and Izzy’s on the other as we walk back to the SUV. The drive home is quiet. Each of us is processing what comes next. Mila chatters about the carousel, oblivious to the tension crackling between the adults. Izzy’s hand finds mine on the center console, squeezing once before releasing.
We’re going to survive this. We have to.
At home, Andrei and one of his men who will stay with Mila are already waiting. They take Mila inside with promises of pizza and movies, leaving Izzy and me standing in the garage. The space suddenly feels too small, too charged.
“Three hours until we need to leave,” I say. “Shower. Dress. Weapons check.”
“Romantic.” But she’s smiling, that dangerous smile that means she’s thinking about violence. “I’m wearing the red dress. The one with the slit.”
Heat floods through me. “You’re trying to kill me before we even get to the gala.”
“Motivation to keep you alive.” She moves closer, hands sliding up my chest. “Can’t let some Chicago contractor take you out when I have plans for later.”
“Plans?”
“Very detailed plans.” Her lips brush my jaw. “Involving significantly fewer clothes and that thing you did last night that made me forget my name.”
