"Home," I tell him as I slide into the back seat. "We're done here."
He pulls away from the curb, and I watch Elena's townhouse shrink in the rearview mirror. All that white stone and old money hiding a woman who's either complicit in Matthew's schemes or too desperate to see that she's being played.
Either way, she's dangerous.
Either way, I need to tell Sergei.
My hand finds Dad's lighter in my pocket. The gold is warm from sitting against my body, familiar and grounding. I flip it open without looking.
Click snap
Click snap
Elena's warning echoes in my head.When he hurts you—and he will, they always do.
She's wrong. I know she's wrong. Sergei's violence is a scalpel, not a hammer. Precise. Controlled. Aimed at people who threaten what's his.
And I'm his now.
Which means Elena just threatened the wrong person.
The bridge to Brooklyn appears ahead, Manhattan fading behind us like a bad dream. I close the lighter, pocket it, and pull out my phone.
Me:Just left Elena's. She admitted Matthew's been funding her custody case. She's scared but won't back down.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Sergei:How scared?
Me:Scared enough to warn me that you'll hurt me eventually. Classic deflection.
Sergei:She said that?
Me:Among other things. We should talk when I get home. Something's off. The way she reacted when I mentioned Matthew—she's hiding something.
Sergei:Or she doesn't know what she's hiding. Matthew uses people without telling them why.
Me:Either way, she's a liability.
Sergei:Agreed. We'll figure it out. Get home safe,kotyonok.
I set the phone down, staring out the window at grey sky and greyer water. The East River looks angry today, choppy because of the wind, reflecting nothing but storm clouds.
Elena's not the enemy. Not really. She's a weapon Matthew's pointing at Sergei, too blinded by her own bitterness to see the hand on the trigger.
But weapons don't get to plead ignorance when they draw blood.
If she keeps pushing—if she helps Matthew take Mila—I'll destroy her, too.
The thought should horrify me. A few months ago, it would have. A few months ago, I was picking out shoes for charity galas and avoiding my mother's phone calls.
Now I'm making lists of people I'm willing to hurt.
The list keeps growing.
I pull out the lighter again, watching the flame catch and dance in the dim light of the back seat. Small. Defiant. Hungry.
Just like me.
