In the master bedroom, I find the weapons cache. Two rifles, four handguns, ammunition, body armor, knives. Enough to fight a small war.
Mila’s exhausted, grief and shock draining her completely. I get her settled in one of the guest rooms—pale blue walls, soft bed, view of the ocean. She curls up under the covers, clutching the stuffed wolf Sergei won her at a carnival.
“Will Papa come home?” Her voice is muffled by the pillow.
“Yes.” I sit on the edge of the bed, my hand finding hers under the blankets. “I’m going to make sure of it. Whatever it takes.”
“What if the bad people come here?”
“Then I’ll handle them.” I lean down, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Sleep, sweetheart. You’re safe.”
She’s out in minutes, body finally surrendering to exhaustion. I watch her for a while—this small person who’s lost her mother, whose father’s in jail, who’s trusting me to keep her alive.
I won’t fail her.
I stare at the ocean. Waves crash against the shore in rhythmic violence, and I think about Elena. Cold, manipulative Elena,who tried to take Mila from Sergei. Who used her daughter as a weapon in her custody war.
She didn’t deserve to die like that.
No one does.
My phone rings. Sergei’s lawyer, Diane Beauchamp.
“He’s refusing bail,” she says without preamble. “Idiot thinks it’s safer for everyone if he stays locked up. Says Matthew can’t get to him in jail.”
“He’s wrong. Matthew has connections everywhere. Sergei’s more vulnerable inside than out.” My hand finds Dad’s lighter in my pocket, the metal warm and grounding. “What do we need to post bail?”
“Two million. Cash or bond.”
“I’ll wire it within the hour. Get him out, Diane. Tonight, if possible.”
“The judge won’t see us until Monday morning?—”
“Try it. Whatever it takes. He needs to be with his daughter.”
Silence stretches. Then, softer: “How is Mila?”
“Destroyed. Holding it together because she’s eight and thinks she has to be strong. But destroyed.”
“I’ll do everything I can. Sergei’s lucky to have you.”
The line goes dead before I can respond. Lucky. Like I’m doing this out of charity, instead of something that feels dangerously close to need.
Darkness falls fastover the ocean. I check the security system three times, confirm Andrei’s men are in position, and make myself eat something from the stocked fridge. It tastes like cardboard, but I force it down anyway.
Mila’s still sleeping when I check on her. Curled in a ball, face streaked with dried tears, the stuffed wolf clutched against her chest.
I should sleep. Should rest while I can. But my body’s wired, adrenaline keeping me sharp and jumpy.
Instead, I open the weapons cache. Select a Glock—smaller than Sergei’s usual preference but easier for my hands. Load it. Check the safety. Set it on the nightstand beside the bed, where I can reach it instantly.
Then I sit by the window, staring at waves illuminated by moonlight, and wait.
The attack comes at 2:32 a.m.
I’m half-asleep when the security alarm shrieks. Every light in the house floods on, automated response, and I’m moving before conscious thought kicks in. Gun in hand, heart hammering, bare feet silent on hardwood.
The control panel shows two breach points—side door and kitchen window. Professionals. Coordinated.
