My partner?
My everything?
“Izzy?”
Mila appears in the doorway, wearing one of my t-shirts like a dress, hair messy from sleep. She looks small and lost and so much like Sergei, it hurts.
“Come here, sweetheart.” I hold out my arms and she comes, curling against my side on the couch. We watch the sunrise together, her head on my shoulder, my arm around her small frame.
“When’s Papa coming home?”
“On Monday.” I press a kiss to her dark hair. “Nothing’s keeping him from us. Not cops, not judges, not anyone.”
She relaxes against me, trusting completely. And I make a silent vow to the ocean, to the sunrise, to whatever gods watch over killers and their families:
I’ll burn down the world before I let anything happen to this child.
Or her father.
Or whatever fragile, dangerous thing we’re building between the three of us.
Dad’s lighter sits on the coffee table where I left it. Gold and scorched and a testament to survival.
I flip it open. The flame catches, small and persistent against the growing daylight.
I’m coming for you, Matthew. For everything you’ve done. Every person you’ve killed. Every life you’ve destroyed.
The flame dances in the morning breeze coming through the open window.
Behind me, Andrei’s crew finishes cleaning. By the time Sergei gets here, the house will be spotless. No blood. No bodies. No evidence, except the resolve hardening in my chest like armor.
Mila falls back asleep against my shoulder. I hold her, one hand stroking her hair, the other resting on Dad’s lighter.
And I wait for whatever comes next.
The ocean crashes against the shore, relentless and patient.
Just like me.
28
Sergei
"Wolf's gota pretty wife waiting for him."
The voice comes from behind me in the rec yard. Saturday afternoon, fourteen hours into my stay at Rikers, and I already knew this was coming. Been waiting for it, actually. Matthew Ashford doesn't waste time.
I turn slowly. Three men fan out in a loose semicircle—blocking escape routes, cutting me off from the guards' line of sight. The one who spoke is built like a brick shithouse, neck tattoos crawling up to his jawline. Prison ink, crude and brutal.
"Pretty wife and a little girl," another one adds. He's thinner, with wiry muscle and dead eyes. "Shame what could happen to them. Accidents and all."
"You boys getting paid enough for this?" I ask conversationally. "Because touching my family? That's a death sentence, not a payday."
Brick Shithouse laughs. "Big talk for a man in lockup. What you gonna do, Wolf? You're neutered in here."
"Am I?"
I move before they process the question. Three steps forward, closing distance, my fist connecting with Wiry's throat. He goes down choking, hands clutching his crushed windpipe, and I'm already pivoting toward the third one—younger, maybe twenty-five, probably thought this would be easy money.
