They’re loading me into the back of a cruiser when I look back one last time. Izzy stands on the sidewalk, black hair whipping in the wind from the dying fire, blue eyes locked on mine. She’s not crying. Not begging. Not breaking.
She’s calculating.
Planning.
Hunting.
And as they drive me away from the scene, as Elena’s brownstone shrinks in the rearview mirror, as the smell of my ex-wife’s death clings to my clothes and skin, I know one thing with absolute certainty: Matthew Ashford just made his last mistake.
Because when they took me off the board, they left Izzy standing. Unguarded. Unleashed.
My Wolf doesn’t lose.
And she’s done playing by their rules.
The cruiser turns a corner, and Elena’s street disappears. I lean my head back against the seat, wrists aching where the cuffs bite, and close my eyes.
Mila.
She’s at school right now. Probably working on math problems or reading one of those mystery books she loves. She doesn’t know her mother just died. Doesn’t know I’m in handcuffs. Doesn’t know her world’s about to shatter again.
But she has Izzy.
And Izzy won’t let her break.
The thought grounds me as we pull up to the precinct, as they march me through corridors that smell like stale coffee and institutional despair. As they shove me into an interrogation room with cinder block walls and a metal table bolted to the floor.
I don’t say a word.
Not when Detective Fraser shows me photos of the wreckage. Not when he details the explosive used—C-4, professional grade, remotely detonated. Not when he lists my “motive”—custody battle, history of violence, opportunity.
I just sit there, hands cuffed to the table, and wait.
Because Izzy’s out there.
And when she’s done, there won’t be anything left of Matthew Ashford to arrest.
Just ashes.
27
Izzy
“Your father’s been arrested.”
The words hit Mila like a physical blow. We’re in Sergei’s SUV, three blocks from her school, and I watch her face crumple in the rearview mirror. Those hazel-green eyes—too old, too knowing—fill with tears she’s trying not to shed.
“Why? What did he do?”
“Nothing.” I pull over, hazards flashing, because I can’t have this conversation while driving. I turn in my seat to face her. “Your father didn’t do anything wrong, sweetheart. But your mother—” The words stick in my throat. How do you tell a child her mother’s dead? That someone killed her with a bomb? “There was an accident. A bad one. And the police think your father was involved.”
“Was he?” Direct. No bullshit. She’s Sergei’s daughter through and through.
“No.” I reach back, taking her small hand in mine. “But we need to leave the city for a while until we figure this out, until your papa comes home.”
“Is Mama okay?”
The question destroys me. I want to lie, to give her one more day of innocence, but Sergei’s words echo in my head.She deserves truth.
