The server reaches our table. His hand goes inside his jacket.
"Get down!"
Everything happens at once. Sergei shoves me sideways, my chair toppling as I hit the floor. I catch a flash of silver, a knife, not a gun, as the server lunges. Women scream. Glass shatters.Then Sergei's on him, moving with that lethal grace that makes him The Wolf.
The knife slashes down. Sergei catches his wrist, twisting until bones crack. The server gasps, and Sergei drives him backward into another table. Food and flowers explode everywhere. People scatter, fleeing toward the exits.
"Stay down," Sergei barks at me.
I'm already crawling toward the wall, my dress ripping, pulse thundering in my ears so loud, I can barely hear the screaming. Sergei disarms the attacker with brutal efficiency, one strike to the wrist, the knife clattering away, then he's got him in a headlock, dragging him toward the service entrance.
"Sergei—"
"Stay. Here." His voice is ice and violence, nothing soft about it now. This is The Wolf, and he's hunting.
He disappears through the swinging doors, the would-be assassin struggling weakly in his grip. I should listen. I should stay put like he ordered. But my hands are shaking, adrenaline flooding my system, and I need to know who sent that man.
I scramble to my feet, ignoring the ripped dress, and follow.
The service corridor is stark white tile and stainless steel. I hear grunting, the meaty sound of fists hitting flesh, and I follow it down a set of stairs to what must be the basement storage area. Dim lighting. Metal shelves stacked with linens and supplies. And in the center, Sergei has the server pinned against a concrete wall.
"Who sent you?" Sergei's voice is terrifyingly calm.
The man spits blood. "Go to hell."
Sergei's fist connects with his ribs. Once. Twice. The crack echoes in the small space.
"I'm already in hell," Sergei says conversationally. "I live there. Now answer the question."
I should stop this. I should feel horror, revulsion, anything other than this dark satisfaction while watching my husband work. But all I feel is gratitude that he's on my side. That this violence is for me.
"Matthew Ashford," the man gasps, sagging in Sergei's grip. "Uncle Matthew ordered the hit."
The world tilts. My hand finds the cold metal shelving, gripping it for support. No. No, he wouldn't.
Except he would. Uncle Matthew, who's been circling my inheritance like a vulture. Who wanted me to marry Cal. Who's been scared of Sergei since the beginning because he knew this would happen, that I'd find someone who couldn't be bought or intimidated.
"You're lying," I hear myself say, voice hollow.
The man's eyes find mine in the shadows. "He said to make it look like your husband couldn't protect you. Said to scare you back into line."
Horror and fury war in my chest. Uncle Matthew. The same man who patted my hand at Dad's funeral. Who offered condolences with those dead brown eyes.
Did he kill Dad, too?
"Sergei." My voice cracks. "Did he, was my father?—"
"Not here." Sergei's still holding the man, but his eyes find mine, reading the devastation written across my face. "Kotyonok, not here."
The assassin laughs, wet and pained. "They said you'd figure it out. The boat?—"
Sergei's hand moves before I can process what he's doing. Quick, decisive. The man's laugh cuts off with a choking sound, and then he's slumping, lifeless, in Sergei's arms.
I should scream. Should feel revulsion.
But I just watch as Sergei lowers the body to the ground, checking for a pulse he knows isn't there. When he straightens, his knuckles are split, blood—not his—spattered across his white shirt.
He pulls out his phone, dialing with steady fingers while I stand frozen. "Andrei. Plaza Hotel, basement storage. One body. Make it disappear." Pause. "Twenty minutes." He hangs up.
