Not much later,he leaves, telling me to get some rest and promising to have guards around me at all times. "For now, we'll keep the charade. You're my wife, and I protect what's mine," were his parting words.
Why the hell did that sound so sexy?
When the nurse came by a little while later to check on me, I asked her to give me my phone from the pocket of my clothes and to close the sliding glass doors. I have no intentions of letting the Italians overhear my conversation with Grigori. Just in case, I ensure we speak in Russian.
"When were you going to tell me you married an Italian mobster?" He greets me.
"My, word travels fast," I reply, a smile circling my swollen lips. He can pretend all he wants to be the bigbad Bratva Pakhan, but I know he loves me and would do anything for me. It wouldn't surprise me to know that he has followed my every step from landing in New York to arriving at St. Raphael's. "No congratulations? No, ‘I'm sorry you got shot and almost died’?"
"Certain jobs come with certain risks," he counters.
Only Solnyshko—Grigori calls his wife little sun, and the nickname has stuck—and I ever hear the thread of steel beneath his calm. To the world, he’s a psychopath who’d auction his own soul for the right price. Reputation is armor. But my sister-in-law and I know the truth: after the auction, he’d torch the buyer, salt the earth, and keep walking through the fire until even the smoke was afraid to rise against him.
"Any word on the leak?" I ask, keeping my voice low.
A beat. Then, winter-dry, "Not yet. But I'll find him."
The rest is understood. Grigori doesn’t extract information—he excavates it. If torture came with degrees, he’d be a decorated professor.
"So," Grigori says, returning to his original question, “you married him?"
Not curiosity. Judgment. A reminder that every choice I make reflects back on him. That if this is a lie, it better be a good one.
I almost laugh. Almost.
"It’s a charade," I say evenly. "I needed his eyes on me."
"Oh, you have them," Grigori snarks, and now there’s dark amusement curling at the edges. "I would’ve paid to see the moment Stephano Conti realized the storm just walked down the aisle wearing his ring."
I exhale a short, humorless sound. "I’m living the replay. Trust me."
The amusement dies. Leather creaks on the other end. He’s pacing, slow and lethal, the way he does when the world is about to get smaller.
"We traced the noise," he says. "Not the source. Just the path."
That’s new. And a good step forward. "And?"
"And one of my channels talked when it shouldn’t have." A pause. Controlled. Angry. Which means this is serious. Grigori only goes silent when he's really fuming, not just for show. "Not enough to burn us. Enough to confirm intent."
"Contained?" I ask.
"For now." Another pause. "I’m narrowing it."
That tells me everything. Grigori doesn’t narrow unless he’s already chosen who’s on the list. "Who?"
"What do you want, sestra?" he asks.
Everything.
"Leverage," I say instead. "Time."
He stops moving. "You’re taking this personally."
I don’t answer. I don’t have to. He already knows.
"I take every mission personally." I remind him. And then, "You didn’t answer my question."
"I was going to tell you when you weren’t one twitch away from ripping the IV out and finishing what the bullet started." He stops. The line goes so quiet I can hear the monitors behind me counting my heartbeats. Then his voice drops, rougher than I’ve ever heard it, like the words are clawing their way out. "We found one."
