Then I move fast, before I can talk myself out of it. I open my bag. My fingers find the burner phone. It’s small, black, plain. No luxury. No polish. It feels like a different universe. I turn it on. The screen lights up, and my heart jumps at the simplicity of it. One contact. Riot. I stare at it until my vision blurs, then I swipe my thumb across the screen and open the messages. My hands shake as I type.
Anya: I’m with my father in a suite at one of the hotels in the city.
I stare at the message for a second, then add more because that feels too cold, too formal, too much like the way I’ve lived.
Anya: Thank you for the phone. And for… everything.
The message whooshes away, tiny and irreversible. I exhale shakily and set the phone on the bed beside me like it might burn through the sheets. A few seconds pass. Then it buzzes. My heart slams hard in my chest as I grab it.
Riot: Good.
Just one word. It shouldn’t make my chest ache, but it does. It’s him. It’s the same calm certainty he carries like a weapon. It’s not a speech. It’s not a plea. It’s not pressure. Then it buzzes again.
Riot: Call if you need me.
My throat tightens. My eyes burn again. I press my knuckles to my mouth to keep the sound inside. I don’t call. Not now. I can’t. There are too many ears in this suite. Too many men outside the door. Too many expectations stacked like furniture around me. But I type anyway.
Anya: Okay.
I stare at the screen. Okay is pathetic but it’s all I can manage. I turn the phone off and tuck it under my pillow like I’m hiding contraband. Then I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at theperfect hotel carpet and try to convince my body that I’m not back in a room that isn’t mine.
A knock comes at the door, soft and controlled but I flinch anyway. A woman’s voice follows in English. “Miss Dragunov? Room service.” I stand slowly, spine straight, and walk to the door. I open it a crack. A cart sits outside with covered dishes. The woman smiles politely, eyes darting over my face and away again like she’s trained not to stare. Behind her, one of my father’s men stands in the hallway, watching. I nod once and take the tray.
“Thank you,” I say, my English steady. When I close the door, my hands tremble as I set the tray on the table. I remove the lids. The smell hits me immediately. Warm soup with crusty warm bread. My stomach clenches with the sudden realization that I haven’t eaten a meal without fear for three weeks. I sit down at the table and lift the spoon. My hand shakes. I force myself to take a bite anyway. The taste is real. Salty. Comforting. My eyes sting. I swallow and keep going, because feeding myself feels like an act of defiance now. Like proof that I am still here, still mine.
EIGHT
RIOT
The house is tooquiet without her in it. I know it the second I walk back inside after watching Viktor Dragunov’s car disappear down the road. The gate slides shut with its usual mechanical hum. The alarm resets. The cameras blink steady. Everything is exactly the same. Except it isn’t. Her coffee mug is still on the counter. The one with the faint chip on the rim. There’s a crease in the couch cushion where she sat last night, knees tucked under her like she was trying to take up less space in a world that keeps demanding more of it.
I stand in the middle of the kitchen and stare at nothing. She left. That was the deal. I said I wouldn’t stop her. I meant it. I am not the kind of man who cages a woman just because I want her near me. Doesn’t mean I have to like it. I grab my keys off the counter and head for the door before I can start replaying the look she gave me from the back seat of that sedan. No promises. No tears. Just steady. That might be worse.
Perdition isloud when I walk in. Music thumps through the floorboards. Laughter. The crack of pool balls. The low rumble of brothers talking business in the corner booth. The place smells like beer and leather and fried food.
Normal. I move through it on autopilot, nodding at a few prospects, ignoring the curious looks. They all know I’ve been off rotation the past couple days. Word travels fast in this place.
Ghost is already at the bar, long legs stretched out, beer in hand. He doesn’t look up when I slide onto the stool beside him.
“You look like shit,” he says calmly.
“Good to see you too.”
He snorts. Takes a drink. “You’ve been MIA. Figured you were either dead or laid up with some chick.”
“Neither.”
“That’s disappointing.”
I signal the bartender. “Whiskey. Neat.” I don’t need ice watering anything down tonight.
Ghost finally turns his head and studies me. He’s quiet about it. Observant. That’s his whole thing. “What’s going on?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
He lifts a brow. “Bullshit.”
I take the glass when it slides in front of me and knock back half in one swallow. The burn is clean. Immediate. Doesn’t fix anything, but it gives my hands something to do.
