Sergei guides me into the SUV, his hand lingering on my thigh as I settle into the passenger seat. The engine rumbles to life and we pull out into the darkness, Brooklyn fading behind us as Manhattan rises ahead like a glittering threat.
“Whatever happens tonight,” Sergei says quietly, eyes on the road but his hand finding mine, “this was worth it.”
“What was worth it?”
“Us. You. This life we’ve built in such a short time.” His thumb traces circles on my palm. “A few months ago, I was fighting for custody and teaching you to shoot. Now I’m taking my wife to a gala where we’re planning to destroy her family.”
“Romantic.”
“I’m serious.” He glances at me, and the intensity in his eyes makes my breath catch. “Whatever happens tonight—if this goes wrong, if Matthew gets the drop on us—I need you to know that these past months? Best of my life. You made me believe dangerous men can have good things.”
My throat closes. “Sergei?—”
“You don’t have to say anything. Just—know it. In case I don’t get another chance.”
The Plaza appears ahead, all gold and glass and old-world elegance. Valets swarm. Cameras flash. The beautiful people of Manhattan are gathering to spend obscene amounts of money on charity while pretending they care about anything, except their own reflections.
We’re about to give them a show they’ll never forget.
Sergei parks, then comes around to open my door. His hand finds mine as I step out, steadying me on these ridiculous heels. The red dress catches every flash, and I hear the whispers already starting.
That’s Isabelle Davenport. The heiress. And her husband, the Russian.
I heard he used to be Bratva.
She married him weeks after her father died. Suspicious, don’t you think?
Let them whisper. Let them speculate. By the time this night’s over, they’ll have much better gossip.
Sergei’s arm wraps around my waist, possessive and protective, and we walk toward the entrance. Golden light spills across marble steps. Music drifts through open doors. Inside, champagne flows and canapés circulate, and somewhere in that glittering crowd, Matthew Ashford waits.
My hand finds Dad’s lighter through the silk of my dress. The metal’s warm, familiar, grounding.
I’m coming for you, Uncle Matthew. For everything you took. Everyone you killed.
Tonight ends with fire.
39
Izzy
“He’s here.”
Sergei’s voice cuts through the champagne chatter and string quartet, low enough that only I hear. His hand tightens on my waist, possessive and warning, as his grey eyes track something across the ballroom.
I follow his gaze. Matthew stands near the bar, silver hair perfect, ice-blue eyes scanning the crowd like a shark circling prey. Cal Reznick hovers beside him, and three men I don’t recognize fan out in strategic positions—walls, exits, blind spots.
The Chicago contractors.
“How many?” I keep my voice steady despite my pulse kicking into overdrive.
“Three visible. Assume more.” His thumb traces circles on my hip through red silk, the touch grounding me. “They’re positioned to box us in. Exits covered. Classic kill box setup.”
“How romantic. They planned a murder just for us.”
His laugh is dark. “That’s my girl. Stay close. When this goes sideways?—”
“When, not if?”
