"Proof." I pull up the transaction records. "Two million dollars, five days before the explosion. Paid to a shell company owned by Ivan Olegov."
His fingers tighten on my shoulders. "Olegov. Bratva cleanup specialist. Makes problems disappear."
"Like boat explosions that look like gas leaks?"
"Exactly like that. This is enough to take to the police."
I laugh, sharp and bitter. "The police? Matthew has judges in his pocket, senators on speed dial. By the time any charges stick, I'll be dead, too."
"Not while I'm breathing. But you're right. Police won't work. We need leverage. Destroy him before he can retaliate."
"I told Wesley to tail him." I tilt my head back, meeting his eyes. "If Matthew's dirty enough to kill Dad, he's dirty in other ways, too. I find his secrets, I own him."
Sergei's mouth curves in a way that's too dark to be called a smile. "That's my girl."
The praise sends warmth flooding through me despite everything. I stand and his hands slide to my waist, anchoring me.
"Mila's at Elena's until next Friday," he says, reading my mind like he always does. "We have a week and a half."
"A week and a half to what? Dig through Matthew's entire life?"
"To make him regret touching what's mine." He cups my face, thumb tracing my jaw. "Starting with finding every skeleton in his closet."
I should probably mention that I'm not actually his, that this marriage is temporary, that eventually, the clause expires and we go our separate ways. But standing here in his arms with his eyes burning into mine, I can't remember why any of that matters.
"Okay. Let's destroy my uncle."
Forty-eight hours later,I'm sitting in a rented sedan across from Circo, one of Manhattan's oldest Italian restaurants. The kind of place where mob bosses used to settle disputes over osso buco, where private rooms guarantee discretion.
Wesley's guy, Tony, built like a brick wall with a camera, sits in the driver's seat. We've been following Matthew all day. His office, his apartment, a meeting with his lawyers. Nothing unusual until now.
"Movement," Tony says, adjusting his lens. "Black Mercedes pulling up."
I watch through the tinted windows as Uncle Matthew steps out, straightening his suit. He's smiling, that cold politician's smile that never reaches his eyes. The valet takes his keys.
Then the passenger door opens and my world tilts sideways.
Mother.
Catherine Davenport emerges wearing sapphire silk that clings to her perfect figure, ash-blonde hair swept up to expose her neck. She's laughing at something Matthew said, her hand finding his arm with casual intimacy.
I watch, frozen, as he leans close to whisper in her ear. As her fingers trail down his lapel. As he presses his palm to her lower back, too low, too familiar, and guides her into the restaurant.
"Well, shit," Tony mutters. "That's not a business dinner."
My throat closes. Can't think past the roaring in my ears. Mother and Uncle Matthew. Together. How long has this been going on? Years? Did Dad know?
Did Dad die because of this?
My fingers find the lighter in my pocket, flipping it open.Click snap.Click snap. The familiar motion grounds me, keeps me from screaming or vomiting or both.
"I need photos," I hear myself say, voice hollow. "Everything. Every touch, every look. I need proof."
Tony's already shooting. "You got it. But Izzy? Your mother?—"
"Is a lying, cheating, murdering bitch." The words taste like acid. "Apparently."
I watch them disappear into the restaurant's private entrance. Watch the door close behind them, sealing them away in their secret world built on my father's corpse.
