I choose her.
Whatever’s left of me after Wednesday night, she can have it. The badge, the gun, the last shred of whatever the fuck I used to be.
I’ll protect them. All of them.
Because they’re hers.
And I’m hers.
And that’s the only law I give a shit about anymore.
I’m still standing in the kitchen, panties in one fist, lighter in the other, when the burner in my desk buzzes.
Unknown number. One line.
Volkov payment 30 days late. Dmitry moving tonight. Bakery.
My blood turns to ice water.
Vitaly.
I’m still in the suit I wore to pretend I’m a good cop today. Shoulder holster, badge on my belt like a joke.
I snatch my keys.
The ridiculous teddy bear is still on the couch, heart stitched in glitter. I shove it under my arm like a hostage. Because if I’m about to cross the final line, I want something soft and stupid to witness it.
I hit the street doing eighty in a school zone, cherry lights flashing, because fuck every red light between me and her.
Bakery’s dark except the low prep lights in the back. No Vitaly silhouette in the window. No Juliet riding him against the mixer.
My stomach drops.
I kill the engine two blocks down, slip into the shadows between buildings.
The tavern across the street is thumping bad techno, drunks spilling onto the sidewalk.
Perfect cover.
I circle to the alley behind the bakery.
And there he is.
Dmitry Krestov, six-three of Russian murder, leaning against the back door like he owns the night. Silencer already screwed on the Glock in his hand.
He spots me before I speak.
“Calloway,” he says, lazy smile, dead eyes. “Nosy cop.”
I keep both hands visible. “Heard the donuts are good. Cop tradition.”
He pushes off the wall, circling. “Pretty thing, the baker’s girl. The one you follow like a dog.” He taps the silencer against his thigh. “Oksana says back off. Shame if something happened to Juliet’s pretty face.”
Her name in his mouth is a detonator.
I draw left-handed, practice range weirdness nobody ever expects, and put two suppressed rounds center-mass before he finishes the sentence.
The Glock drops. He looks down at the holes blooming red on his white shirt like he’s surprised flowers can grow there.
