Vitaly’s bringing his things over tonight. First load of boxes. First drawer. First toothbrush.
We even set a date for dinner with Reid. Letting Vitaly breathe first. Letting the dust settle before we introduce him to the chaos of family dinner where I’ll end up on the table. The platter for dessert.
Work is dragging.
Noah’s working the bakery so Vitaly can pack.
I pull up the feed to Vitaly’s house while I pretend to work.
Bedroom’s quiet. Boxes scattered like he gave up halfway through folding. Clothes in neat, precious stacks.
Kitchen’s worse. Chaos. A war crime of packing tape.
Living room…
Oksana.
My whole body goes cold.
The purse packs itself.
Because what the actual fuck is that bitch doing in his house?
Then she draws.
Glock jammed under his chin like she’s taking his temperature with murder.
The world narrows to a single red dot.
I pass my boss’s door without stopping. “Family emergency. Broken bone. ER.”
Voice shaking. Hands worse.
“Tell Orion I hope it’s not the other wrist,” my boss calls after me.
ER trips with him happen enough, no one questions it.
I cross the lot in a full sprint, eyes still on the live feed.
She hits him.
Pistol whips him. Hard, across the temple.
My vision whites out.
I throw everything in the passenger seat and peel out toward the sporting goods store.
I won’t risk the discount store being out of stock.
This bitch doesn’t get a pass because of poor inventory planning.
Because this?
This is too much.
She crossed the line.
Crossed my line.
