But some things can’t be learned overnight. I’m not sure if they can be learned at all.
"I'm leaving for a few hours," I say. "My other enforcer, Dmitri, and his team will be here. They’ve flown in from Boston to watch the place while I’m gone. You'll be safe."
Now she looks up, and the expression on her face makes my chest tight. "More business?"
"Yes."
She pauses, biting the corner of her lip. "The kind of business where you might not come back?"
The question catches me off guard. I want to lie, to reassure her, but something makes me want to be honest with her. And I can’t help wondering, looking at her, if she’s worried I won’t come back, or if she’s hopeful that I might not.
After all, if I’m gone, there’s no one keeping her here.
I clear my throat. "There's always that risk."
She sets down her book, standing up. "Then maybe you should tell me what's really going on. Maybe you should trust me enough to let me in, just a little."
A part of me truly wants to. To open up to her, to have something like a partner, to find out if I could share my life with someone wholly. If I don’t have to be so alone any longer. But the words stick in my throat, trapped behind years of conditioning that says vulnerability is weakness and trust is a liability.
"I can't," I say finally, and I watch her expression shutter.
Her lips thin. "Can't, or won't?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes." She tilts her head, looking at me. "It matters, Ilya. Because 'can't' means there's you could still try. 'Won't' means you've already decided I'm not worth the risk."
I want to touch her, to pull her against me and breathe in her scent and pretend that everything is fine. But I don't, because I'm about to walk into a situation that could go horribly wrong if we’re not careful, and I can't afford to be distracted by how much I need her.
"I have to go," I say instead.
She looks at me for a long moment, and what I see in her face is worse than anger. It's disappointment. Resignation. The look of someone who's finally accepting that the person they hoped for doesn't exist.
"Be safe," she says quietly, and turns away.
I leave without another word, and the entire drive to the warehouse, I feel like I've made a terrible mistake. Like I should turn around, go back, and tell her everything. Tell her that I’ll try. That I’ll let her have her freedom so that I can have her in my life.
That I love her.
But I don’t. I grit my teeth and focus on the job ahead, because all I was trained to be—all I’ve ever been—is a man who chooses control over trust and isolation over vulnerability.
And I realize, as we near the warehouse district, that's why I'm going to lose her.
—
The warehouse districtis exactly as desolate as always, just abandoned buildings, broken streetlights, and the smell of salt and rust from the nearby port. Perfect for an ambush.
We park three blocks away and approach on foot, our three teams moving in coordinated silence. I'm with Kazimir and four others, approaching from the south. The other teams are in position at the east and west exits.
"Checking positions," Kazimir murmurs into his comm.
"East team in position," comes the response.
"West team in position."
"Hold for my signal," I say, scanning the warehouse. Lights are on inside, visible through the grimy windows. I can see shadows moving—people inside, just as our source said.
We wait. Minutes stretch into an eternity, every sense heightened, adrenaline singing through my veins. This is familiar territory—the hunt, the violence, the clarity that comes from knowing exactly what needs to be done.
