“It’s over now, my love.”
Silence again.
But it’s different now.
Not heavy.
Just full.
The city passes by.
We turn the corner, and the bakery comes into view.
Warm lights spilling through the window like the ending of a good story.
Noah’s behind the counter.
Elliot’s at the table with his notebook.
I turn to Vitaly.
“You’re mine,” I say.
His eyes flick toward me.
No hesitation.
“Da, kroshka,” he says, voice sure.
We barely make it through the door before Noah locks eyes on Vitaly’s face.
He rounds the counter so fast he nearly knocks the pastry case off-balance, grabbing Vitaly, fingers hovering over the damage like he can will it to heal.
“Who?” he asks, voice sharp.
“It’s handled,” I say.
Elliot strides over, eyes scanning me. They land on the blood spatter on my shirt.
“Baby doll,” he says carefully, “what did you do?”
“She touched him.”
He doesn’t ask who.
He doesn’t have to.
Elliot’s eyes narrow.
Not angry.
Thinking.
He pulls me aside, away from Noah’s fussing and Vitaly’s wincing.
“Network?” he asks quietly.
“Callum’s handling it. Reid’s burning records.”
