My breath stops.
"Pakhan's nephew was being extorted by Chechen gangsters. They came to collect at a club in Brighton Beach—small place, back room where they did business." His thumb traces circles on my palm. Grounding. "I was supposed to be watching the door. That's it. Just watch."
"What happened?"
"Three men walked in." Pause. "Two walked out."
The third. Fifteen-year-old Sergei. Blood on his hands for the first time.
"The Pakhan saw potential. Smart kid, no hesitation, willing to do what needed doing." His voice goes flat. Reciting facts like they happened to someone else. "By eighteen, I was his enforcer. By twenty-five, I was The Wolf. The guy you called when someone needed to disappear. Permanently."
I squeeze his hand. Feel the calluses. The strength. The hands that have killed dozens—hundreds?—and are now holding mine, like I'm something precious.
"How many?" I have to know.
"Don't ask questions you don't want answered."
"I want answers. All of them."
He pulls our joined hands to his chest. My palm presses against his heartbeat. Steady. Strong. Alive despite the body count.
"Enough so that I stopped counting," he finally says. "Enough that I still wake up most nights with blood on my hands. Phantom blood. Gone when I look, but I can still feel it. Still smell it."
The confession lands heavy.
This man. This dangerous, violent man who kills without hesitation.
Has nightmares.
Feels guilt.
I shift closer, eliminating the space entirely. My forehead rests against his. His breath ghosts across my lips.
"My father used to take me sailing." My turn. Fair exchange. "Before Mother decided it was too dangerous for the Davenport heiress. He'd point at the horizon and tell me that's where freedom lived. Just past where water meets sky."
Sergei's quiet. Listening.
"Now I dream about water and fire. The explosion. Him drowning while the boat burns. Or burning while he drowns. I can never tell which. But I'm always there. Always watching. And I can never reach him." My voice cracks. "I can never save him."
His free hand slides into my hair. Cradles the back of my head. Pulls me closer until there's no space left between us.
"I think my mother knows." The words tumble out. "Who killed him. The way she panicked when I told her about us. The fear in her voice. She's terrified of you, Sergei. Which means she knows something. Something bad enough that The Wolf scares her."
His grip tightens in my hair. Not painful. Possessive. "I'll find out what."
"I know you will." I press closer. Bodies flush now. Every point of contact sending awareness through me—his chest against mine, his legs tangled with mine, his hand in my hair. "I hireda PI today, Wesley Cahill. Best in the business. He's going to investigate the explosion."
"Good." His mouth brushes my forehead. Barely making contact. "But you should've told me first."
"Why? So you could do it yourself?"
"So I could protect you while you dig up whatever your family buried." His lips trail to my temple. My cheekbone. Hover near the corner of my mouth. "People who commit murder don't appreciate investigators,kotyonok."
"Then it's lucky I married someone who kills them back."
The sound he makes—half growl, half laugh—vibrates through both of us.
"You're either the bravest woman I've ever met," he murmurs, "or the most reckless."
