"He's cornered. Desperate. Everyone who could testify is dead or compromised. He has nothing left, except going after us directly." She pulls back enough to meet my eyes. "Wesley thinks he'll make a play this week. Something big. Public. Designed to eliminate us and walk away clean."
"And the bugs we found before Elena died? Matthew still thinks we don't know he was listening?"
"Andrei confirmed. We left them active when we relocated here—Matthew's been hearing empty rooms for days. He's blind now. Deaf. Whatever he's planning, he's doing it without insider intel."
"Good." My hand slides into her hair, fist closing around the dark strands. "Let him try. I'm done running. Done hiding. He comes for my family again, I'm putting him down permanently."
"Not without me." Her fingers dig into my shoulders. "He killed my father. Tried to kill me four times. Poisoned Mila. Murdered your ex-wife and tried to frame you. This isn't just your fight."
"No. It's ours." I lean down, lips hovering near hers. "We end him."
"We end him," she echoes.
The air between us crackles, charged with more than planning. With need. Want. The kind of attraction that's been building since she walked into my office proposing marriage.
I should pull away. Mila's upstairs. We're in a safe house surrounded by guards. This isn't the time.
But her lips part, and I'm lost.
The kiss is desperate. Hungry. Three days apart feels like three years, and I pour everything into it—fear and relief and possession and something that might be love, if I'm brave enough to name it.
She kisses back with equal ferocity, her nails digging into my scalp, her body arching against mine. I lift her onto the counter, and she wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me closer, and?—
"Papa! I found it!"
We spring apart faster than a bullet. Izzy slides off the counter, smoothing her hair, face flushed. I adjust my jeans and try to remember how to breathe normally.
Mila appears with her book, oblivious. "Can we read by the ocean? Please?"
"Yeah,ptichka." My voice is rough. "Whatever you want."
She runs to grab a blanket, and Izzy catches my wrist. "Tonight," she whispers. "When she's asleep. We finish this."
"The conversation or?—"
"Both." Her smile is wicked. "We finish both."
The afternoon bleeds into evening.I read to Mila until she falls asleep against my chest, book forgotten, waves crashing beyond the windows. Izzy sits across from us, watching with an expression I can't quite read.
Soft. Tender. Dangerous.
When I carry Mila upstairs and tuck her in, she grabs my hand. "Don't leave."
"Never,ptichka. I'm staying right here." I settle into the chair beside her bed. "Sleep. I'll watch."
She's out in minutes, breathing evening out. I watch her—this small person I created, who's survived divorce and danger and death. Who's learning that the world requires teeth but still believes in bedtime stories.
I'll burn the world down to keep her safe.
Footsteps behind me. Izzy appears in the doorway, two glasses of whiskey in hand. She passes me one and leans against the doorframe.
"She's resilient," Izzy says quietly. "Stronger than any kid should have to be."
"She's a survivor. Like her father." I take a long drink, letting the burn ground me. "Like you."
"Strength or insanity." She's smiling slightly. "Normal people don't kill attackers and dispose of bodies on a Friday night."
"We stopped being normal the day you proposed marriage in my office."
