I glance at him, then at Boris. “Options?”
Boris types something, screen glowing blue against his face.
“If they touch her, it won’t be quiet. We’ll have proof. But she needs a shadow everywhere she goes.”
I nod once. That settles it.
The sliding door opens. Ray’s back, Emma bouncing in his arms, dry clothes swapped for another swimsuit that’s just as soaked now because she’s managed to dump a cup of water down her front.
She wriggles free, drops to the ground, and bee-lines back to us. Sticky fingers, wet hair, eyes like she’s cracked the case of the century.
“Are you planning a party?” she asks.
The four of us—killers, soldiers, weapons—go silent.
Ray doesn’t miss a beat. “Yes, hon.”
“Is it my birthday again?” Emma asks, tilting her head.
Ray looks down at his daughter with eyes that hold something I’ll never have. Pure, uncomplicated love. Protection without calculation. The kind of look that comes from knowing you’d burn the world down for someone who thinks you hung the moon.
“Not today, peanut. You already had your turn.”
She nods, serious as a general. Then spins and runs back to the pool, trailing watermelon seeds and half the patio’s water supply.
Ray watches her go, shakes his head. “Kids. They see everything. Understand nothing.” He takes another pull from his beer, then looks back at me. “But you four? You’re different.”
I raise an eyebrow. He doesn’t elaborate. Just leaves it there, like he’s testing how far I’ll bite.
From the side, Boris lifts his eyes from the laptop.
“Mary’s birthday is October fifteenth. She turns thirty.” His gaze flicks to me, deliberate.
I know. I’ve known for weeks; her file made sure of that. What I didn’t expect was still having her in my orbit when the date came around. She was supposed to be a problem I cleaned up, not a fixture I’m… planning around.
Lev doesn’t miss his chance. He leans back in his chair, grin sharp as a blade.
“You know, the one Anton keeps circling like a wolf. His girl.”
My jaw tightens. “She’s not—”
“Please,” Lev cuts in, lazy drawl dripping amusement. “You guard her like she’s Bratva royalty. Only thing missing is a tiara and matching bulletproof vest.”
Boris snorts into his beer. “Don’t give him ideas. He’ll actually order one custom.”
Ray’s eyes flick between us, calculating, interest sparking.
“So this Mary… she matters.”
“She’s pack,” Dima says quietly, not looking up from where he’s sketching something on a napkin—probably Emma’s requested story. “We don’t leave pack behind.”
Lev nods, suddenly serious. “Anyone touches her, they go through all of us.”
“She cooks,” Boris adds, like that explains everything. “Real food. From scratch.”
“And she’s totally the boss’s type,” Lev continues with a smirk.
Ray arches a brow. “Type, huh?” Then he turns, pins me with a look that digs deeper than it should. “So… marriage material.”
