"Tell me."
I stare at her—this woman who, a week ago, was a medical student with a future, a life, a world that had nothing to do with blood and violence. Who should be running as far and as fast as she can from everything I represent.
"This isn't your fight, Bianca."
"Isn't it?" She stands, crossing to where I'm standing by the window. The morning light catches her body, illuminating curves and shadows, and I have to force myself to focus on her face. "Sergei isn't just coming for you. He's coming for me. That makes it my fight."
"I can protect you without your involvement."
"Can you? Or are you just trying to keep me in the dark again?" Her eyes flash. "We talked about this. I don't want to be managed. I want to understand what's happening so I can—"
"So you can what? Fight alongside my men? Pick up a gun and start shooting?"
"So I can be prepared. So I know what to expect if things go wrong." She holds my gaze. "I'm not a soldier. I know that. But I'm not a victim either. Not anymore."
The words hit something in my chest. I think about her on that auction stage, chin raised, refusing to break. About her in the greenhouse, bringing dead things back to life. About her walking toward me in the rain, choosing to close the distance instead of running away.
She's not a victim. She never was.
"The plan," I say slowly, "is to fortify the estate and wait. Sergei has more resources than I anticipated—he's been building alliances for weeks. A direct assault on him would be suicide."
"So you're playing defense."
"For now. Until we know more about what he's bringing."
"And if his forces are bigger than yours? If your defenses aren't enough?"
"Then we have contingencies. Safe houses, extraction routes. Dmitri is ready to provide backup if things go sideways."
She's quiet for a moment, processing. Then: "What about my father? Alexei said he might talk."
I hesitate. This is the part I didn't want to tell her—the part where her family's betrayal might get us all killed.
"Carmine is a coward," I say finally. "He'll do whatever he thinks will keep him alive. Right now, that means staying neutral. But if Sergei puts enough pressure on him..."
"He'll sell us out. The way he sold me."
"Yes."
She laughs—a bitter, humorless sound. "Of course he will. Some things never change."
"Bianca—"
"Don't." She holds up a hand. "Don't apologize for him. Don't try to soften it. My father is a monster who sold his own daughter to pay his debts. If he betrays us, it won't be a surprise. It'll just be consistent."
There's a hardness in her voice that wasn't there a week ago. The last illusions about her family have crumbled, leaving nothing but cold, clear-eyed understanding.
It should make me sad. Instead, I feel something like pride.
"I'm going to shower," she says, turning toward the bathroom. "Then I want a full briefing. Security layout, defensive positions, contingency plans—all of it. If I'm going to be part of this, I need to know what I'm part of."
She disappears into the bathroom. A moment later, I hear water running.
I stand at the window, watching the guards patrol the perimeter, and try to reconcile the woman I just spoke with to the woman I held last night. They're the same person—I know that. But the shift is disorienting. Last night she was soft in my arms, gasping my name, giving me pieces of herself she'd never given anyone. This morning she's all sharp edges and strategic thinking.
Maybe that's what survival looks like. Softness in the dark, armor in the daylight.
I can relate.
