I can even win.
CHAPTER 24
Adrian
The bookshop is smaller than I expected.
Antiquarian Rare Books sits wedged between a bodega and a dry cleaner on a street that's seen better days. The storefront window displays leather-bound volumes arranged with care, but the gold lettering on the glass is faded, peeling at the edges.
This is where Sera spent her days. Where she felt safe.
I glance at her. She's been quiet since we left the penthouse, hands folded in her lap, but there's an energy radiating off her that wasn't there before. She bops her leg up and down as though she can't sit still, and the sight of it makes something twist in my chest.
A mixture of want and dread.
Gabe escaped three weeks ago and hasn't surfaced. The Morozovs haven't retaliated for Dimitri yet, which means they're biding their time. And we still don't know who sent the professional hit squad to the safe house—only that they weren't Morozov crew.
Sera is twenty weeks pregnant now. Showing. Anyone with eyes can see she's carrying the Nero heir. She's not just my wife anymore. She's a walking target.
One man with a knife nearly killed her when she was barely pregnant. Now? Now she's a fucking beacon.
"Ready?"
Sera nods, already reaching for the door handle.
I catch her wrist gently. "Wait for Leo."
Her jaw tightens, but she settles back and waits while Leo exits the second SUV and does a sweep of the street. Two more guards take positions outside the shop.
She lets out a sigh, and I know she's not happy about the precautions.
But I'm not taking any chances.
"All clear," Leo says through the comms.
I open Sera's door and offer my hand. She takes it, stepping out onto the sidewalk, and I see her shoulders relax the moment her feet hit the pavement.
The bell above the door chimes as we enter.
The interior smells like old paper and leather, dust and time. Floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with volumes, a worn Persian rug, a desk buried under books and invoices. Classical music plays softly from a radio somewhere in the back.
It's cramped and cluttered and completely at odds with the sleek, minimalist spaces I'm used to.
And Sera looks more at home here than I've ever seen her.
"Seraphina?"
An older man emerges from behind a velvet curtain at the back of the shop. Seventy, maybe older, wire-rimmed glasses, weathered hands, the kind of face that's seen a lifetime of stories.
Mr. Bolinger.
"Mr. Bolinger!" Sera's voice cracks, and she's moving before I can stop her, crossing the shop in quick steps.
The old man catches her in a hug, and I watch her bury her face against his shoulder. His hand comes up to pat her back, gentle, paternal.
"There now," he murmurs. "There now, kiddo. It's alright."
Leo shifts beside me, hand near his weapon, but I shake my head. Let her have this. Sera hasn't spoken much about the Bolingers, but I know that not seeing them has made things difficult for her.
