The wall beside my desk is suddenly too close. My fist connects with drywall before conscious thought kicks in. Once. Twice. Plaster cracks, splits, crumbles around my bloodied knuckles. Pain flares up my arm, but it’s not enough, doesn’t come close to touching the rage and fear burning through my chest.
I’m going to lose Mila.
Another punch. The wall gives way completely, leaving a hole the size of my fist and white dust coating everything.
“Sergei.”
I spin. Izzy’s standing in the doorway, her eyes wide but not afraid. She takes in the destroyed wall, my bleeding knuckles, the phone I’ve crushed in my other hand without realizing it.
“Elena filed for emergency custody. She’s using The Plaza incident. Claiming I’m unstable.”
“Are you?” She moves closer instead of retreating.
“Right now? Yes.” I hold up my ruined hand, blood dripping onto the hardwood. “I’m standing in my office having just assaulted a wall because I can’t assault the woman who’s taking my daughter from me.”
“Then we fight back.” Izzy reaches for my hand, examining the damage. “Come here. Let me clean this.”
I follow her to the kitchen, violence still humming under my skin. She pulls the first-aid kit from under the sink and guides me to sit at the table.
Her fingers are gentle as she cleans the blood away. Two knuckles split open, already swelling purple. I watch her work, the way her black hair falls forward, the concentration furrowing her brow. She’s wearing one of my shirts again, sleeves rolled up, and the sight of her in my clothes does dangerous things to my chest.
“This is who I am,” I tell her quietly. “The Wolf. I don’t just protect with violence—I am violence. Elena knows it. The courts will know it. And they’ll decide Mila’s better off without me.”
“Bullshit.” Izzy looks up, her eyes fierce. “You’re the man who makes pancakes every Saturday. Who reads bedtime stories in different voices. Who taught his daughter that being smart is better than being liked.”
“I also kill people without blinking.”
“To protect the people you love.” She wraps gauze around my knuckles. “There’s a difference, Sergei. The courts just need to see it.”
“How? Elena has witnesses, security footage?—”
“Elena has a vindictive ex-wife narrative.” She secures the bandage and doesn’t let go of my hand. “We have the truth. And we have resources.”
I study her face, the determination written in every line. “What are you planning?”
“I’m planning to make a phone call.” She stands, pulling out her own phone. “To someone who specializes in making legal problems disappear.”
“Isabelle—”
“You protected me at The Plaza. You’ve protected me since the moment I showed up at your office with my insane proposal.” Her free hand cups my jaw, thumb tracing my cheekbone. “Let me protect you back.”
Heat floods through me despite the circumstances. She’s looking at me like I’m worth saving, like the violence under my skin doesn’t make me a monster. Like I’m hers.
“Who are you calling?”
“Tallulah Davis. She’s on the boards of half the hospitals in New York, married to a federal judge, and she owes my father a favor.” Izzy’s already dialing. “More importantly, she knows every family court judge in Manhattan and exactly which skeletons they’re hiding.”
I should stop her. Should handle this myself, without dragging her deeper into my mess. But watching her mobilize, wielding her old-money connections like weapons, I realize she’s not dragging—she’s choosing to dive in.
The call connects. Izzy’s voice shifts into that polished Upper East Side tone I rarely hear. “Tallulah? It’s Isabelle Davenport—Orlov now, actually. I need a favor.”
She walks into the living room, giving me privacy but staying visible through the doorway. I watch her pace, watch her hands gesture as she explains the situation in crisp, efficient terms. No emotion, no begging. This is business, and she’s conducting it with the same steel spine that runs through every Davenport.
My hand throbs. I flex my fingers, testing the damage. Two knuckles definitely cracked, maybe fractured. Worth it for thirty seconds of feeling something other than helpless.
The Wolf will always live under my skin. I can play at being civilized—the protective husband, the patient father—but strip away the veneer, and I’m still the man who makes people talk.
Elena’s right about that.
