“No,ptichka. She’s not. Your mama died in the accident. I’m so sorry.”
The tears come then. Silent, devastating, streaming down her face while she stares at me like I’ve just told her the sun won’t rise tomorrow. I unbuckle myself, climb into the back seat and pull her against my chest. She’s rigid at first, holding everything in, then she breaks—small body shaking with sobs that wrack through both of us.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper against her hair. “I promise, I’ve got you.”
We sit like that for ten minutes while traffic flows around us, while the world continues spinning despite the fact that hers just shattered. When her sobs finally slow, she pulls back, wiping her face with her sleeve.
“Where are we going?”
“Hamptons. A safe house.” I smooth her hair back, tucking loose strands behind her ear. “One of your father’s friends is meeting us there. We’ll be protected.”
“From who?”
From the man who killed your mother and wants me dead.
“From bad people,” I say instead. “People who want to hurt our family. But they won’t. I won’t let them.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.” The words feel like an oath. A vow. “Nothing’s getting through me to you. Nothing.”
She nods once, decisive, and buckles herself back in.
“Okay. Let’s go.”
The drive takestwo hours through traffic that makes my teeth grind. Every black sedan could be Matthew’s men. Every motorcyclist could be carrying a gun. I keep one hand on the wheel, the other on the Glock Sergei made me carry, and try not to let Mila see how terrified I am.
My phone buzzes constantly. Wesley with updates. Our lawyer with bail information. News alerts about Elena’s death, about Sergei’s arrest, about the “dangerous Bratva enforcer” in custody.
I silence it all.
The safe house appears at the end of a private road—modern glass and steel tucked into dunes, ocean stretching endlessly beyond. Andrei’s already there, leaning against a black Mercedes, cigarette dangling from his lips. He’s older than Sergei, maybe fifty, with salt-and-pepper hair and the kind of face that’s seen things civilized people can’t imagine.
“Isabelle.” He grinds out the cigarette under his boot. “And this must be Mila.”
Mila peers at him from behind my legs, suspicious and scared. I don’t blame her.
“The house is secure,” Andrei continues in accented English. “Reinforced doors, panic room, weapons cache in the master bedroom. I have two men patrolling the perimeter. No one gets close without us knowing.”
“Thank you.” I guide Mila toward the front door, exhaustion suddenly crashing through me. “How long until we can get Sergei out?”
“Lawyer’s working on bail. Maybe tomorrow, maybe longer. They’re calling it first-degree murder.” His expression darkens. “Elena had her own list of enemies. But Sergei’s the easy arrest.”
“He didn’t do it.”
“I know. You know. Police don’t care.” Andrei hands me a key card. “Everything you need is inside. Food, clothes for the girl, security system codes. You have problem, you call me. I come running.”
“Why are you helping us?”
He smiles, and it’s not kind. “Sergei saved my nephew’s life six years ago. Took three bullets doing it. I owe him blood debt. This?” He gestures at the house. “This is nothing.”
Blood debt. The currency of Sergei’s world. Not money or favors, but survival and sacrifice.
“Then I owe you, too,” I tell him.
“No. You owe Sergei. And you pay him back by keeping his daughter alive.”
The house is exactlywhat Andrei promised—fortified luxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the ocean, but the glass is bulletproof, thick enough to stop a rifle round. The doors are steel-reinforced. Security cameras cover every angle.
