"Maybe not." She smiled, taking the sting out of the words. "But you have it anyway. You have me. That's not going to change, Vasily. Not in New York, not anywhere."
The jet lifted off, the ground falling away beneath us. Athens shrank to a collection of white buildings and ancient ruins, then disappeared beneath the clouds.
Ahead of us: the Atlantic. New York. Her past.
But she'd called it home. And she was holding my hand.
Whatever waited for us, we'd face it together.
Chapter 23 - Gaby
New York smelled different than I remembered.
Or maybe I was different. Maybe the woman who stepped off Vasily's private jet at Teterboro wasn't the same woman who'd been dragged from her apartment in the middle of the night all those weeks ago. The city was the same—the same gray skies, the same honking taxis, the same press of humanity on every street corner. But I saw it through new eyes now.
Eyes that had witnessed violence. That had stared down death and survived.
Eyes that had learned what it meant to be loved.
"You're quiet," Vasily said as the car carried us through the Lincoln Tunnel toward Manhattan.
"Just thinking." I watched the tiled walls flash past, the fluorescent lights strobing through the tinted windows. "It feels strange. Being back."
"Strange how?"
"Like visiting somewhere I used to live a long time ago. Like it belongs to someone else now." I turned to look at him. "Does that make sense?"
"Yes." He took my hand, threading his fingers through mine. "You've changed. The city hasn't. It's disorienting."
"Have I changed? Or have I just become who I was supposed to be?"
He considered the question with the seriousness I'd come to expect from him. "Both, perhaps. You've shed the parts that didn't fit. Grown into the parts that were always there but hidden."
"That's very philosophical for a crime lord."
"I have depths."
I laughed despite the nerves coiling in my stomach. He always knew how to make me laugh—this man who'd terrified me, infuriated me, and ultimately captured my heart.
The car emerged from the tunnel into the gray light of Manhattan. Skyscrapers loomed overhead, familiar and foreign at the same time. We passed through streets I'd walked a thousand times—past coffee shops where I'd grabbed lattes, past subway stations I'd descended into every morning, past the building where I'd worked and struggled and never felt like enough.
None of it touched me anymore. It was scenery. Background. The setting of a story that had ended.
"The penthouse is ready," Vasily said. "Semyon's had it secured. We can rest there before you—"
"No." I squeezed his hand. "I want to see Lisa first. Before I lose my nerve."
He studied my face, reading something in my expression. "Are you sure?"
"No. But I need to do it anyway."
***
The Thai restaurant was exactly as I remembered.
Same red vinyl booths, same slightly sticky menus, same smell of lemongrass and chili oil. Lisa and I had eaten here at least once a week for years—celebrating promotions, mourning breakups, dissecting the endless drama of our lives over pad Thai and cheap wine.
I stood outside the door for a full minute before I could make myself go in.
