“Objection.” Our lawyer cuts him off, her voice ice. “Mrs. Elena Orlov has her own questionable associations. In fact, we have evidence that her entire custody battle is being funded by Matthew Ashford—a man currently under federal spotlight, pending investigation for multiple felonies, including conspiracy to commit murder, fraud, and racketeering.”
The courtroom erupts. Whispers cascade like falling dominoes. Elena’s face goes from smug to white in the span of a heartbeat. Her lawyer’s stuttering, papers rustling, but our lawyer’s already moving forward with a folder.
“That’s a serious allegation, Counselor,” Judge Galeotti says.
“We have documentation, Your Honor.” Our lawyer slides the folder across the bench with practiced precision. “Bank transfers showing Matthew Ashford paying Mrs. Orlov’s legal fees. Six figures worth. Phone records showing dozens of calls between them over the past two months. Text messages discussing strategy. Mrs. Orlov may claim ignorance about Mr. Ashford’s criminal activities, but she’s certainly benefited from them financially—and coordinated with him extensively.”
I watch Elena’s composure shatter like safety glass. Her lawyer’s whispering frantically in her ear, but the damage is spreading like wildfire. Judge Galeotti is reading through the documentswith increasing disapproval, her mouth thinning into a hard line.
“This changes the complexion of the case significantly.” The judge looks at Elena, and there’s no sympathy in her expression. “Mrs. Orlov, did you know about Mr. Ashford’s alleged crimes when you accepted his financial support?”
Elena’s mouth opens. Closes. Her hands twist in her lap, pearls clicking together. “I—he’s a family friend. My daughter’s stepmother’s uncle. He offered to help with legal costs when he heard about the custody dispute. I didn’t know about any criminal activity. I would never?—”
“Save it for your own investigation.” Judge Galeotti’s voice is steel wrapped in judicial courtesy. “Given these revelations, and the fact that Mr. Ashford’s alleged crimes include targeting Mrs. Isabelle Orlov—the very person caring for the child in question—I’m denying the petition for emergency custody modification. In fact, I’m assigning Mila over to Mr. Orlov as a temporary custody arrangement. We’ll revisit this matter in six months, after Mr. Ashford’s legal situation has been resolved and we have clearer information.”
The gavel comes down with finality.
Victory tastes like ash in my mouth. I should feel relief. Triumph. Something other than this hollow waiting-for-the-other-shoe-to-drop sensation.
Elena’s face contorts with rage. She stands so fast, her chair scrapes, pointing at me across the aisle like she’s casting a curse. “This isn’t over. You think you’ve won? You’ve just signed her death warrant, Sergei. Everyone around you ends up dead.Everyone. Your wife will be next, and then what? Then you’ll finally understand what you’ve done?—”
“Mrs. Orlov, control yourself or I’ll hold you in contempt?—”
But Elena’s already storming out, heels clicking like gunshots on polished floor. Her lawyer scrambles after her, briefcase banging against his leg, and her family follows in a wave of expensive perfume and judgment.
The courtroom empties in her wake. I stand there, pulse hammering, trying to process what just happened.
We won.
Even better than that.
I got Mila.
Izzy’s arms wrap around me from behind, her face pressed between my shoulder blades. I feel her trembling—adrenaline crash, probably, from hours of sitting still while our lives hung in the balance.
“You did it,” she whispers against my back. “She’s yours.”
“Ours.” The word slips out before I can stop it, before I can remember this is supposed to be temporary. “Mila’s ours.”
She stiffens against me, but she doesn’t pull away. We stand like that while our lawyer collects her papers, while the bailiff escorts Judge Galeotti out, while the world continues spinning around us like nothing monumental just happened.
Then Izzy’s phone buzzes.
She pulls it out, and I watch the color drain from her face. Her blue eyes go wide, then dark, and her hand starts shaking so badly the phone nearly slips.
“Sergei.” Her voice is hollow. “It’s Wesley. He says—” She swallows hard. “Elena’s car just exploded. On the way to her house. With her inside.”
Everything stops.
The air leaves my lungs. My brain stutters, trying to process words that don’t make sense. “What?”
But I’m already moving, pulling her toward the exit. My phone’s out, dialing contacts I haven’t used in years—Bratva connections who’ll know what happened before the news does.
“When?” I bark into Izzy’s phone when she just stands there. “Wesley. When did it happen?”
“Ten minutes ago,” his voice crackles through the speaker. “Emergency services are on scene. Fire department, cops, the works. I’m sending coordinates now. Sergei—it’s bad. Real bad.”
The coordinates ping through. Near Elena’s brownstone. The place where I used to live, where Mila was born, where my marriage fell apart over years of cold silences and colder beds.
