But the system doesn't protect people like Izzy from men like this.
I press my forearm across his throat and apply pressure. He struggles, weakening with each second, and I watch his eyes go vacant with the same detachment I've watched dozens of others. When his pulse stops, I count to ten. Make sure.
Then I stand, scanning for witnesses. The area's cleared out. Smart people run from gunfire.
Izzy's crouched behind a tree twenty feet away. Face pale, breathing too fast, but not screaming. Not frozen. Her eyes meet mine across the distance.
She doesn't break.
"Come here," I tell her, already pulling out my phone. "Quickly."
She moves. Doesn't ask questions. Doesn't look at the body longer than she has to.
I dial Andrei. He answers on the second ring.
"Prospect Park. Near the boathouse. One body." I give him the coordinates. "How fast?"
"Fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty."
"We don't have twenty. Shots fired. People ran. Someone's already called the cops."
"Then walk away now. I'll handle it."
"Can't leave him here with ID that traces back?—"
"Sergei." Andrei's voice sharpens. "Walk. Away. Take your wife. Go home. I've cleaned up worse in tighter windows. Trust me."
I look at the dead man. At the Bratva ink on his neck. At the phone in his pocket, which might tell me who sent him, but might also cost me the fifteen minutes I don't have.
"Go," Andrei says. "Now."
I hang up. Grab Izzy's hand. "We're leaving."
"The body?—"
"Being handled. Walk with me. Normal pace. Don't look back."
She doesn't argue. Just threads her fingers through mine and matches my stride as we head toward the nearest exit. Her hand is ice-cold. Trembling slightly. But her grip is firm.
We don't speak until we're three blocks away, cut through a residential street with brownstones and parked cars and no sign of pursuit. The sirens start then—distant, converging on the park we just left.
"Bratva," Izzy says quietly. "I heard the accent."
"Old employers. They don't appreciate retirement."
"He said I was marked, too."
"He was trying to scare you."
"It worked." She's not looking at me. Eyes forward, jaw tight. "What happens now?"
"Andrei cleans up. Body disappears. Cops find shell casings and blood but no victim, no witnesses willing to talk. Case goes cold." I squeeze her hand. "It's handled."
"And the next one? The one after that?"
"I handle those, too."
She stops walking. Her hand tugs mine, pulling me to face her. We're standing under a streetlight that's just flickering on, dusk settling around us like a bruise.
