Mila’s footsteps retreat. Sergei turns back to me, and the heat in his eyes could melt steel.
“Later,” he says. Promise and threat wrapped in one word.
“Later,” I agree.
That night,after Mila’s asleep and Sergei’s checked the locks twice, we end up on opposite ends of the couch. Exhaustion should make me crash, but I’m wired—adrenaline from training mixing with awareness of the man beside me.
“You did well today.” He’s cleaning his guns, the ritual soothing for someone who’s lived by violence. “Three days and you’re already competent. Give it a month and you’ll be lethal.”
“High praise from The Wolf.”
“I don’t give praise I don’t mean.” He slides the magazine into place with a decisive click. “You don’t need saving anymore.”
“Good,” I tell him, pulling Dad’s lighter from my pocket and flipping it open. The flame catches, small and persistent. “I’m not yours to save.”
“No. You’re not.”
But the way he says it makes my breath catch.
The lighter clicks closed.
And in the darkness, I feel him move closer.
24
Izzy
"He haswhat your father was building. Before he died."
Wesley's words echo in my head as I drive through Lower Manhattan, knuckles white on the steering wheel.
I don't need more proof that Matthew killed Dad. I have Mother's confession recorded. I have the yacht footage showing Matthew on the boat the night before the explosion. I have the wire transfer to Olegov, the joint Cayman account, enough evidence to bury them both.
But Gerald Hartman claims he has something different. Something Dad himself was gathering before Matthew silenced him.
I finally agree to meet with Gerald—Dad's old business partner, who’s been calling nonstop for weeks. He wants to meet somewhere public, he said. Safe.
The diner he chose sits wedged between a bodega and a laundromat, neon sign flickering OPEN in grimy windows. Not exactly the Four Seasons, but I guess when you're terrified someone wants you dead, ambiance isn't a priority.
I park two blocks away, like Sergei taught me. Always give yourself multiple exit routes. Always keep your head up. Always assume someone's watching.
Always assume you're the target.
My phone buzzes. Sergei, checking in for the third time in an hour.
Where are you?
Meeting Gerald. The diner on Canal Street.
Three dots appear, disappear, appear again.
Not alone.
Then another message:Wasn't a question, kotyonok. Wait for me.
I stare at the message. Part of me wants to listen, to be the good wife who waits for her dangerous husband to handle things. But the part that's been training for weeks, the part that can now hit center mass at twenty feet and knows six different ways to break someone's wrist—that part is done waiting.
I'm already here. I'll be careful.
