“When.” His eyes meet mine, storm-grey and absolutely certain. “You shoot anyone who’s not me or Andrei or Wesley. No hesitation. No mercy.”
He hands me a gun, small enough to fit into my clutch.
“Mercy’s overrated anyway.” I slip my hand through the slit in my dress, fingers brushing the lighter’s warm metal. Dad’s presence. Dad’s fire. “Let’s give them a show.”
We move deeper into the ballroom, a sea of designer gowns and tuxedos parting around us like we’re royalty. Or predators. The Lighthouse Foundation Gala is Manhattan’s premiere charity event—five hundred of the city’s wealthiest gathered to throw money at a good cause while congratulating themselves on their philanthropy.
Tonight they’re about to witness a murder. The ultimate show of public humiliation.
Matthew sees us approaching. His expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in those dead eyes. Recognition. Fear disguised as contempt. He’s no doubt remembering our last encounter when Sergei put him in his place.
“Isabelle.” His voice carries false warmth. “How lovely you could make it. And Mr. Orlov. Still playing bodyguard, I see.”
“Husband,” Sergei corrects, his arm iron around my waist. “I’m her husband. Remember? The marriage you tried so hard to annul?”
“A temporary arrangement, surely. Once the inheritance timeline passes?—”
“The only thing temporary here is your freedom.” I step forward, forcing Matthew to either hold his ground or retreat. He retreats. “Enjoy the champagne, Uncle. It’s the last taste of luxury you’ll have for a while.”
His jaw tightens. “Careful, Isabelle. Threats in public places tend to backfire.”
“That’s not a threat. That’s a promise.” I smile, all teeth. “Detective Fraser received quite the package this afternoon. Financial records, audio recordings, witness testimony. Everything needed to connect you to my father’s murder. The DA’s probably drafting charges as we speak.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Am I?” I lean closer, dropping my voice to something intimate and lethal. “Ivan Olegov sends his regards. Oh wait—he can’t. He’s dead. Funny how all your hired killers keep ending up that way.”
Matthew’s composure cracks. His hand moves toward his jacket, and Sergei’s already intercepting, catching his wrist.
“I wouldn’t.” Sergei’s voice could freeze blood. “Not here. Not with five hundred witnesses and my wife wearing a dress that makes me willing to burn down the world to keep her safe.”
“Let go of me.” Matthew tries to wrench free, but Sergei’s grip is immovable. “You’re making a scene.”
“Good. I like scenes.” Sergei releases him with a shove that sends Matthew stumbling back into Cal. “Now fuck off before I forget we’re in polite company.”
They retreat, but the Chicago contractors shift positions. Closing in. The one by the east exit—buzz cut, dead eyes—catches Matthew’s signal. His hand slides inside his jacket.
Everything happens at once.
The contractor draws. Sergei moves faster, shoving me behind him as the first shot cracks through crystal and champagne. The string quartet cuts off mid-note. Women scream. Men dive under tables. Glass shatters as bullets punch through the massive windows overlooking Central Park.
I’m already moving, hand finding the knife in my bodice as I drop into a crouch. The red dress rides up my thigh. I grab the gun Sergei gave me, safety off, tracking targets through the chaos.
Buzz Cut’s advancing on us, gun raised. Sergei intercepts, moving with that lethal grace that makes him The Wolf. One strike disarms. Another drops Buzz Cut to his knees. The third—a precise blow to the temple—sends him crumpling.
The second contractor appears from behind a marble column, weapon tracking Sergei’s back. I don’t think. Don’t hesitate.
I fire.
The shot takes him in the shoulder. Not where I aimed—center mass—but close enough. He spins, gun swinging toward me, and Sergei’s already there. A knife appears in his hand like magic, burying itself in the contractor’s throat. Blood sprays across expensive tile.
“Behind you!” I scream.
The third contractor lunges from the crowd, blade flashing. Sergei pivots, catching the knife arm, twisting until bone breaks. The contractor’s scream cuts off when Sergei’s elbow connects with his face. Once. Twice. The man drops like a puppet with cut strings.
Three contractors down in under a minute.
But Matthew’s running. Shoving through panicked guests, heading for the service entrance. I’m moving before conscious thought kicks in, hiking my dress up to sprint in five-inch heels that weren’t designed for pursuit.
