I don't wait for her response. Instead, I leave, firmly closing the door behind me.
The girl who wanted her mother's approval died with Richard Davenport.
What's left is someone sharper. Harder. Dangerous.
The driveback to Brooklyn is silent, except for rain pattering against the windows. Sergei's hand finds mine on the center console, squeezing once before releasing.
"Got what you needed?"
"Everything. On tape." I touch the recorder in my pocket, proof of betrayal captured in digital silence. "She admitted knowing about Matthew's plan. Admitted the account. Admitted she suspected what would happen and stayed silent anyway."
"That's enough to bury her."
"More than enough." I stare out at grey streets blurring past. "She tried to justify it. Said Dad was going to destroy everything—expose the affair, the embezzlement, all of it."
"So Matthew killed him to protect their secrets."
"And she let him. Helped him, even if she wants to pretend she didn't know exactly what that account was for." My hand finds the lighter in my pocket, seeking comfort in familiar metal. "She's not the victim here. She keeps trying to play that role, but she made choices. Every single one led here."
"What are you going to do with the recording?"
I consider the question. Part of me wants to send everything to Detective Fraser immediately—watch Mother led away inhandcuffs, watch her perfect world crumble. But that's revenge, not strategy. And I've learned the difference from the dangerous man beside me.
"Not yet." I turn to face him. "She's leverage now. She knows I can destroy her. That keeps her docile while we handle Matthew. Once he's finished, once the trials are over—then I decide what to do about Catherine Davenport."
"Smart." His eyes meet mine briefly before returning to the road. "You're thinking three moves ahead."
"I learned from the best."
His mouth curves slightly. "The Wolf's been teaching his wife bad habits."
"The best habits." I lean across the console, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "Take me home. I need to decompress before we plan the next move."
Home. The word feels right now. Not my penthouse with its cold marble and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a park I can't enjoy. Sergei's fortress in Brooklyn, with its hidden security and warm rugs, and a little girl who calls me Mom.
That's home.
And I'll burn down anyone who threatens it.
Including the woman who gave me life.
Especially her.
21
Sergei
"You needto learn to fieldstrip a Glock."
Izzy looks up from the financial records she's been staring at for the past two hours, eyes slightly glazed. "I need to what?"
"Fieldstrip. Disassemble, clean, reassemble." I set the gun on the kitchen table between us, along with the cleaning kit. "If you're going to carry, you need to maintain it. Can't have your weapon jam when Matthew's men come calling."
She blinks. Processing. "You want to teach me gun maintenance? Right now? At eleven at night? While I'm going through my mother's offshore accounts?"
"You've been staring at the same spreadsheet for twenty minutes." I tap the laptop screen. "You're not processing anymore. You're spiraling."
"I'm not—" She stops. Looks at the screen. Her mother's signature next to Matthew's, over and over, bleeding Dad's fortune. "Fuck. You're right."
