“Mrs. Orlov!” A reporter shoves a microphone in my face as we exit onto Fifth Avenue. “Can you comment on the violence at tonight’s gala? Sources say your uncle attacked you?—”
“No comment,” Sergei growls, steering me toward our SUV.
“Is it true your mother’s been arrested for murder?”
“Is Matthew Ashford dead?”
“Mrs. Orlov, please?—”
I stop. Turn. Face the cameras and the reporters and all of Manhattan watching through their screens.
“Matthew Ashford and Catherine Davenport conspired to murder my father, Richard Davenport, four months ago. Tonight, they attempted to kill me and my husband to cover their crimes. They failed. Justice will be served. That’s all I have to say.”
Sergei pulls me into the SUV before they can ask follow-ups. The door slams, cutting off the shouting, and suddenly, it’s quiet, except for the engine’s rumble.
“You okay?” His hands frame my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones. “You’re covered in blood. Any of it yours?”
“No. All theirs.” I stare at my hands—red silk stain-darkened, the Glock still clutched in my right palm. “I shot Matthew. Put a bullet in a man I loved like an uncle.”
“You defended yourself. Defended us. That’s not murder. That’s survival.”
“Is it?” I meet his eyes, searching for judgment or horror or anything except the acceptance burning there. “Because it felt like revenge. And I liked it. I liked watching him fall. Liked seeing Mother led away in handcuffs. What does that make me?”
“Dangerous.” He kisses me, hard and claiming, tasting like smoke and copper. “Mine. Alive. Pick whichever matters most.”
“All of them.” I kiss him back, desperate and relieved, needing the confirmation that we’re here, that we survived, that tomorrow exists. “Take me home. To Mila. To our life. I want to scrub off the blood and hold our daughter and sleep for a week.”
“Deal.” He shifts into drive, navigating away from The Plaza, away from the chaos, toward Brooklyn.
I stare out the window, watching Manhattan blur past. Somewhere behind us, Mother’s being processed. Matthew’s in surgery. Cal’s corpse is being photographed and catalogued.
And Dad’s lighter sits warm in my pocket, gold and scorched and proof that some fires refuse to die.
I did it, Dad. I made them pay. Every single one of them.
The thought should bring satisfaction. Closure. Instead, I feel hollowed out. Empty in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with winning a war I never wanted to fight.
“Hey.” Sergei’s hand finds my thigh, warm through silk. “You did good tonight. Stayed sharp. Didn’t freeze. Protected yourself and took down the people who killed your father. That’s victory,kotyonok.”
“Then why does victory feel like grief?”
“Because vengeance doesn’t fill the hole they left. Just stops the bleeding. But you did what you had to do. What your father would’ve wanted. You protected his legacy. Made sure his killers faced consequences. That’s worth something.”
“Is it? Mother will go to trial. Matthew, too, if he survives. The media will dissect every detail. Davenport Holdings will be in chaos. And I’ll have to rebuild everything they destroyed.”
“Not alone.” His voice is absolute. “You’ve got me. You’ve got Mila. You’ve got Wesley and Andrei and everyone who chose your side. We’ll rebuild together.”
The bridge appears ahead, Brooklyn rising beyond it like sanctuary. Home. Safety. The fortress where Mila’s waiting, probably watching the clock, counting minutes until we return.
“She’ll ask questions,” I say. “Mila. She’s too smart not to. We can’t lie to her about tonight.”
“No. But we can tell her the truth. That bad people tried to hurt us, and we stopped them. That justice won. That her family’s safe now. She’s strong enough to handle it. Like her father. Like her mother.”
“I love her,” I whisper. “Your daughter. I love her like she’s mine.”
“I know. She knows. That’s why tonight mattered. Why stopping Matthew and your mother was non-negotiable. Because we’re protecting our family. All of us.”
Inside the house, lights glow warm. I hear Mila’s laughter, probably at something Milo said.
