It’s a small piece of dried glue that’s been pressed flat.
And there, etched on its thin surface, is the unmistakable shape of a thumbprint.
Mythumbprint.
And that’s when everything falls into place. That day when she came to my penthouse dressed like sex on legs. When sheinsistedon taking my glass of water. When she was rounding the desk like I caught her doing something she shouldn’t.
She copied my fingerprint. She used it to open the safe. She found the list of names and sent it to the fucking D’Ambrosio Family.
She almost got my son killed.
She was playing me. The whole time.
Did she do all of this so she can get close enough that she can stab me herself? Every tender moment. Every whispered confession. Every time she looked at me like I was something other than a monster—was all of it an elaborate performance?
Manipulation. A long game I was too blinded to see?
Red seeps into my vision, and I have one more thing to confirm. I open my laptop, and tap into the terminal that monitors all communication to and from the plane’s satellite connection.
There!
Two texts and a call, all sent to the same phone number.
With trembling fingers, I type the number into my phone, hoping and praying that it won’t show up as someone already in my contact list.
But it does.
Nico D’Ambrosio.
I call Alik.
"Get as many men as you can," I say, my voice taking on the cold register of a pakhan. "Guard my son and Ludmilla tomorrow evening at 7PM at a safe location."
“While you do what?"
I look at the dried glue thumbprint that confesses Bella’s guilt, and resist the urge to crush it in my palm.
"I have a liar to punish."
47
BELLA
I catchmyself touching the necklace for the third time while I check my make-up.
The seven-pointed star feels heavier tonight, and I try to imagine that it might protect me as I prepare to walk into a controlled demolition of my own making.
I've spent five years building a fortress from lies in the hopes of destroying Slava Romanov. And tonight, I’m about to tear it all down for him.
I've rehearsed my confession over and over again. Practiced in the mirror like a deranged actor preparing for the role of a lifetime:I might’ve been lying to you from the start, but please believe that somewhere along the way, the lies started hurting me more than they could ever hurt you.
The buzzer sounds. He's here.
I grab my purse, check my reflection one more time, and head for the door. My heels click against the floor with each step, and each step sounds like another gunshot going off behind my head.
Tell him. Just tell him. Rip off the bandage, let the wound breathe, and accept whatever bleeding follows.
The black car is waiting at the curb. The windows are tinted so that I can’t see him. But I know he’s inside as sure as I know that my heart is slamming in my chest. I’ve never been more scared than I am now.
