“She’s a liability. Which is worse.”
Sera steps in behind him, silent but sharp-eyed. She studies Harper with a strange mix of pity and appraisal, like she knows exactly what’s coming and hates being the one to witness it.
“We don’t eliminate our own,” I say.
“She isn’t our own,” Mikhail snaps.
He doesn’t raise his voice often. The last time he did, we were standing over three bodies and a burning house.
“She stays,” I say.
“And if Anton comes through her?” he challenges. “If she is the crack in your armor? If keeping her costs us ten lives? Fifty? A hundred?”
I hold his gaze. “Then I deal with it.”
“Damian.” Mikhail’s tone goes colder. “You want to protect her?Fine. Make it official.”
The words hit like a gunshot.
Sera’s breath catches. Harper’s eyes widen slightly, confusion flickering through them like a candle struggling against wind.
I know exactly what Mikhail means before he speaks the sentence aloud.
“A wife under your name is the only status that shields her from internal retaliation. No one touches an Ignatova.”
The room falls silent.
Iron settles in my stomach, heavy and absolute. Bratva law is older than we are, older than the empire we inherited. A wife under my name would fall under the highest protection we still honor. She would be untouchable.
Harper’s life would be tied to mine in a way that can’t be undone without blood.
“Mikhail,” Sera murmurs, a note of warning in her voice. “That’s—”
“That’s the only option,” he cuts in. “Unless Damian wants her delivered to Anton in pieces.”
My fingers curl into fists. He isn’t threatening me, no, it’s the simple truth.
Harper has become leverage and leverage gets cut out before it can be used.
Mikhail turns to me.
“Your decision. But make it now.”
He leaves without waiting. Sera lingers for a moment, her soft, sympathetic gaze lingering on Harper, slightly impressed by the fact that Harper hasn’t collapsed under the weight of what she just indirectly heard. But her eyes hold something else too.
Worry.
Then she follows Mikhail, the door shutting behind them with a finality I feel in my ribs.
Silence wraps the office.
Harper paces back and forth. Her shoulders are drawn tight like a bowstring. She looks ready to tear through the walls or rip answers straight from my bones.
“What the hell was that?” she demands. “He’s joking, right? Tell me he’s joking.”
I step closer, each footfall deliberate, controlled, carrying the weight of the decision already solidifying inside me.
“Mikhail wants you under Ignatov protection,” I say slowly.
