"It's time," he says.
I don't need to ask what he means. I've been waiting for this. Dreading it.
"Today?" My voice comes out small.
"Today." He strokes my hair back from my face. "We make the call. Draw him out. End this."
End this. End my father. End the threat hanging over my family.
End the excuse for Renat to keep me.
That last thought makes my chest tight. Will he still want me after? When I'm no longer useful, no longer leverage, no longer the bait that caught the prize?
"Hey." Renat tilts my face up to his. "Where did you go?"
"Nowhere." I force a smile. "Just thinking."
"About?"
"About what happens after. When you don't need me anymore."
His expression darkens. "I will always need you. That doesn't change just because your father is dead."
"But—"
"No." He kisses me, hard and claiming. "We're getting married. Having children. Building a life. Your father's death doesn't change any of that. It just removes the last obstacle."
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly.
He studies my face for another moment, then nods. "Get dressed. We have work to do."
An hour later, I'm sitting at the dining table, staring at a burner phone like it's a live grenade.
Renat sits across from me, his laptop open, some kind of tracing software running on the screen. Dariy, another of Renat’s brothers, stands by the window, arms crossed, watching us with an unreadable expression.
"You remember what to say?" Renat asks.
I nod. We've been over it a dozen times. Keep it short. Sound desperate. Give him just enough to make him come, but not enough to spook him.
"And if he doesn't answer?"
"Leave a voicemail. Make it count."
My hands shake as I pick up the phone. I haven't spoken to my father since he disappeared. Haven't even thought about what I'd say to the man who destroyed our lives and caused innocent people to die.
Now I have to lure him to his death.
"It's okay to be angry," Renat says softly. "Use it. Let him hear how much he hurt you."
I nod again and dial the number Dariy traced to a burner phone my father's been using.
It rings. Once. Twice. Three times.
Then: "Hello?"
His voice. My father's voice. The voice that used to read me bedtime stories and teach me to ride a bike and promise me everything would be okay.
Rage floods through me, so intense I can barely breathe.
