"This has to stop," I said.
"It will. Once we neutralize the threat—"
"No. I mean, I have to stop it." I turned to face him. "If I turn myself over, they'll leave you alone. Your men will stop dying. Your restaurants will stop burning. Everything goes back to normal."
"Nothing goes back to normal. And you're not turning yourself over."
"It's my choice."
"It's not a choice. It's suicide." His voice hardened. "Do you know what Branko Petrovic does to women? Do you know what he's done to the ones he's already 'owned'?"
"I've treated some of them. I know exactly what he does."
The memories rose unbidden—women who'd sat in my office with hollow eyes and shaking hands, describing horrors that haunted my dreams for weeks afterward. The Petrovics hadn't just trafficked them. They'd broken them. Systematically, deliberately, with the patience of men who enjoyed their work.
"Then you know why I won't let you anywhere near him."
"Let me?" The word came out sharper than I intended. "You don't get to let me do anything. I'm not your property, Rodion. I'm not a thing to be protected and controlled and kept in a tower until you decide it's safe."
"That's not what I—"
"It's exactly what you're doing. You married me to keep me away from them, and now you're keeping me locked up to keep me away from them, and people are dying because you won't just let me end this."
"People are dying because the Petrovics are monsters." He stepped closer, and I saw the anger in his eyes—real anger, not the controlled frustration he usually showed. "They were killing people long before you entered the picture. They'll keep killing people long after. You think surrendering yourself will save lives? It won't. It'll just add yours to the count."
"You don't know that."
"I know exactly that. I've been living in this world my whole life. I've watched people try to appease men like Branko Petrovic. It never works. They take what you offer, and then they take more. There's no end to it."
"So what's the alternative? We just wait while they burn down everything you've built? While more men die?"
"We fight. We protect what we can. We make them pay for every inch they take."
"That's not a strategy. That's just stubbornness."
"Maybe." His jaw tightened. "But it's kept me alive this long."
"And what about me? What about the fact that I have to live with knowing people are dying because I exist?"
"That's not on you."
"It feels like it's on me."
"Feelings aren't facts. You taught me that."
The words hit harder than they should have. He was using my own techniques against me, and the worst part was that hewasn't wrong. I'd said exactly that to him in one of our sessions, when he was spiraling about things he couldn't control.
"That's different," I said.
"How?"
"Because in your case, you actually weren't responsible. In my case—"
"In your case, you're also not responsible. Cormac is responsible. The Petrovics are responsible. Your father was responsible for raising you in a world where women are currency." He stepped closer, and I found myself backing up until my shoulders hit the wall. "You didn't choose any of this. You ran from it. You built something new. And now it's caught up with you, and you want to punish yourself for something that was never your fault."
"I'm not punishing myself. I'm being practical."
"You're being a martyr. There's a difference."
