"Wesley sent intel," she says, weaving through traffic. "Matthew's been busy. He paid off Elena's car mechanic to plant the bomb."
My hands curl into fists. "Name?"
"Dead. Found in his apartment yesterday. Apparent suicide—gun in his mouth, note confessing to the job." She glances at me. "Except Wesley says the handwriting's wrong. And the gunshot residue pattern doesn't match self-infliction."
"Matthew's cleaning house."
"Everyone who could testify against him is dying. He's systematic. Efficient. And he thinks we're too broken to fight back."
"Are we?"
"Two of his men attacked the safe house Friday night. I killed them both. Does that sound broken to you?"
Everything in me goes still. "What?"
"Mila's fine. I got her to the closet first. Handled the threat. Andrei disposed of the bodies." Her voice doesn't waver, doesn't shake. "They came for us thinking I'd be easy prey. They were wrong."
She killed them.
My fake wife killed two men to protect my daughter. Didn't hesitate. Didn't break.
Became exactly what I taught her to be.
Dangerous.
"You okay?"
"Define okay." She takes the bridge toward Long Island, Manhattan shrinking behind us. "I shot two people. Watched them bleed out on hardwood floors while your daughter hid in a closet. Then I called a Bratva fixer to make them disappear." Sheglances at me, blue eyes fierce. "Am I okay? No. But I'm alive. Mila's alive. That's what matters."
"Did she see?—"
"She heard. Came downstairs after. Saw the aftermath." Izzy's hands tighten on the wheel. "Asked if I killed them. I said yes. She said you'd be proud."
Christ.
Mila is processing murder like it's acceptable. Normal. Expected.
"I am proud," I tell Izzy. "Of you. What you did. That you're both alive."
Her breath catches. "Sergei?—"
"You saved her. Fought for her. Became the monster necessary to keep her breathing." I reach across the console, my hand finding her thigh. The leather is smooth and warm under my palm. "That's everything."
She doesn't pull away. Just drives, my hand heavy on her leg, and something shifts between us. Settles. Like we've finally stopped pretending this is temporary.
The Hamptons houseappears after two hours—modern glass and steel perched on dunes, endless ocean stretching beyond. Andrei's Mercedes is gone but two other vehicles remain. Guards, probably. Watching the perimeter.
Izzy kills the engine. "She's been asking for you. Every hour. When's Papa coming home?"
"And you told her?"
"That I'd bring you back. Whatever it took." She turns to face me. "I meant it. Matthew can't have you. The cops can't have you. No one gets to take you from us."
"Isabelle—"
"Don't." She shakes her head. "Don't say whatever you're about to say. Not yet. Not until this is over and we're safe, and I can think past keeping us all alive."
Fair enough.
