“He bled out,” he says, nodding toward the masked man who tried to kill us. “No ID. Only a burner phone—smashed. I’ll get the techs on it.”
“Run every print,” I order, voice hoarse. “Background check the whole crew. I want answers, Boris. I want to know who sent them. This wasn’t random. It never is.”
He nods, already gone.
The hallway empties, dust settling in the pale blue morning. I look down at my hands—blood, gun oil, a fine cut across my knuckles. I’ve been trained for violence all my life, but nothing in my memory matches the feeling of watching Suzy fight for both of us. The way she stared down death. The way she never gave an inch.
I try to shake it off, to retreat into logic, to remember that she’s leverage, nothing more. But her face keeps returning to me—the line of her jaw, the wild courage in her eyes, the way she glared at me as if daring me to make her small. She’s not a pawn. She’s not even an enemy, not really.
She’s a force—alive, defiant, infuriating.
***
Later, Marcus calls. His voice is controlled, but there’s an edge I haven’t heard before—something brittle, dangerous. “You have my daughter. I have your brother. Let’s end this before anyone else gets hurt.”
I should be relieved. It’s the obvious answer. I’d get Nikola back, Suzy would return to the man who raised her, and this mess would be over.
When I hang up, the only thing I feel is that raw, uncomfortable tightness in my chest. I stare at the shattered glass, the ruined hall, Suzy’s blood drying on my hands. The thought of handing her back—of never seeing that spark in her again, never matching her fire with my own—hits me harder than any bullet. I’m not sure when I crossed the line, but I know I have.
I stand in the empty hall, blood on my skin, replaying every second over and over. All my old certainties are gone, replaced by a single, impossible question.
What happens to a man who stops caring about winning—and starts caring about the one piece he can’t afford to lose?
Chapter Nine - Suzy
I wake as if surfacing from deep water, every part of me heavy, senses muffled, my skin carrying the echo of last night’s chaos—gunshots and glass, adrenaline and Leon’s hands fierce around my wrists.
My body aches in a hundred places, as if bruised by fear as much as violence.
For a few moments, I drift in the space between dream and memory, piecing together fragments: the cold tile, blood on my arm, the way Leon’s gaze burned into mine, furious and unyielding.
It’s only when I shift, stretching gingerly, that I notice the pressure around my neck is gone. My hand flies up to feel bare skin, pulse fluttering. There’s no collar.
I touch the spot over and over, as if expecting it to reappear. My breath stutters. I’m free, but it doesn’t feel like victory. I wait for panic, for a shout or the snap of a lock, but the room is silent, the door stands open, and there’s no camera in the corner.
I can’t trust it.
I sit up slowly, as if any sudden movement might trigger a trap. I press my palm flat over the hollow of my throat, feeling the vulnerability, the relief tangled with suspicion. Maybe it’s just a new trick. Maybe it’s Leon changing the rules again.
A brisk knock rattles the frame. “Downstairs. Five minutes.” His voice is low, almost tired. I listen for anger or threat, but hear neither. He doesn’t wait for my answer.
I dress quickly, muscles stiff and uncertain. Every item of clothing feels like someone else’s choice, but for the first time in days, I get to decide what to wear.
My hands shake as I slip on jeans and a soft sweater, knotting my hair back with trembling fingers. There are no guards, no surveillance, no eyes tracking me as I step into the hallway. Each tiny freedom rings false, unfamiliar, like stepping onto a stage without a script.
I walk with my shoulders back, heart pounding. I half expect someone to lunge from the shadows, for Leon to appear and remind me who’s in charge.
Instead, I pass empty rooms, sunlight striping the floor. The estate is quieter than I’ve ever known it—no tension humming in the air, no raised voices, just the hush of an ending.
Leon waits by the front door, coat already on, eyes shadowed and distant. For a second, I consider stopping, demanding to know what’s happening—why he’s changed the rules, why he’s letting me go now.
Something in his expression stops me. He looks like a man who’s already said goodbye. Like someone braced for the next blow.
I slip on my shoes, fingers fumbling at the laces, and step outside for the first time in days. The cold air shocks my lungs, the sharp scent of wet earth and distant rain. I tell myself not to look at him, but my gaze finds his anyway. He holds the door open, doesn’t say a word.
The drive is silent, the car gliding through pale morning light, city still half asleep. My hands twist in my lap, knuckles whitening. I stare out at empty streets and blank storefronts, wondering how the world kept moving when everything inside me stalled.
At last, Leon speaks. His tone is almost gentle, as if he’s telling me a secret. “Your father agreed to a negotiation. You’ll be exchanged today.”
