"I have enough to bury Matthew. But this?" I stare at the evidence on my screen—my mother's signature next to a wire transfer that paid for my father's death. "I need to know if she knew. Not suspected. Knew. I need to hear her say it."
"Then take your husband. The man who literally kills people professionally?—"
"This is between her and me." I'm already moving toward the stairs, needing real clothes, needing armor. "Mother to daughter. Woman to woman. Accomplice to the person who's about to prove it."
The recording device Wesley's tech guy gave me yesterday sits heavily in my jacket pocket. Sophisticated enough that even Bratva sweeps wouldn't detect it. I don't just need a confrontation—I need her confession. On tape. Undeniable.
"You're going to get yourself killed."
"Only if she's faster than I am."
I hang up before he can list all the ways that this is suicidal.
Footsteps on the stairs. Sergei appears in the doorway, silver-threaded hair still messy from sleep, wearing nothing but grey sweatpants.
The universe has terrible timing.
"Where are you going?" His voice is rough with sleep, but his eyes are sharp, already reading my expression.
"Mother's townhouse." I don't stop moving, pulling a bra from the drawer with more violence than strictly necessary. "Wesley found the proof I needed. Her name is on the account that paidOlegov. She didn't just know about the murder—she helped fund it."
"Okay."
I freeze, bra halfway on. "Okay?"
"Not alone, but okay." He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. "You want to confront the woman who helped murder your father, I'm not letting you do that solo."
"She's my mother. She won't?—"
"She's sleeping with the man who put a sniper on my daughter." His voice goes cold. That particular cold that means The Wolf is awake. "She doesn't get the benefit of maternal instinct."
He's right. I hate that he's right.
"Fine. You come. But you stay in the car." I yank on jeans, trying to look less like I rolled out of bed and more like I'm capable of psychological warfare. "She sees you, she'll use it. Say I'm being controlled, manipulated."
"Thirty minutes. If you're not out?—"
"You come in, I know." I cross to him, press up on my toes, kiss him fast and hard. "I'll be careful."
"You've never been careful in your life,kotyonok."
Fair.
The drive takesforty-five minutes through midday traffic. I spend every second reviewing the evidence on my phone.
The joint account. The wire transfer. Her signature next to his.
My mother helped kill my father, and I'm about to make her admit it.
The lighter's warm in my palm. I flip it open, closed, open, closed. Marco doesn't comment on the fact that I'm playing with fire in his back seat.
He's worked for my family long enough to know when silence is kindness.
Mother's townhouse rises ahead—five stories of white stone and money so old, it's practically inherited guilt.
Sergei's SUV idles at the curb. He taps his watch through the window.
Thirty minutes.
