But Kristen? She's never had this. The magic of doing something just because it's fun.
I watch her kneel beside Lily in the shop, examining wands with the kind of serious consideration usually reserved for business negotiations. Lily waves one experimentally, nearly taking out a display.
Kristen doesn't scold her. She laughs and guides Lily's arm to a safer angle.
I did this, I think. I gave her this.
Not because I'm generous. I'm not. I'm selfish and possessive and I'd burn this entire park to the ground if anyone threatened them.
But I gave her this moment. This day. This life.
And she chose to stay.
That's the part that still breaks me.
She came back.
She chose me.
"Nico?" Kristen's voice pulls me back. She's standing in front of me, Lily clutching a sparkly wand that probably cost more than it should. "You okay?"
I realize I've been staring. "Fine."
Her eyes narrow. She doesn't believe me. She never believes me when I say fine. It's annoying and wonderful and I love her for it.
"You're doing that thing," she says.
"What thing?"
"The brooding thing. The intense staring thing." She steps closer, lowering her voice. "The thing that makes me want to drag you somewhere private."
My blood heats. "Don't tempt me."
"Mommy! Nico! Come on!" Lily tugs at both of us. "The parade is starting!"
Kristen grins at me before letting Lily pull her toward the crowd.
I follow. I will always follow.
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CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Dmitri
The security feeds cast blue light across my desk, twelve screens showing every corner of Nexus. Main floor packed with bodies grinding to bass that vibrates through the building's bones. VIP section glittering with champagne and secrets. The hidden stairwell to the third floor is empty, as it should be.
I don't watch the screens for pleasure. I watch because in my world, the moment you stop paying attention is the moment someone puts a bullet in your skull.
Igor stands across from me, his face carved from years of Bratva service. Ex-military. Loyal to a fault. The only man besides my father I trust with information that could destroy us.
"Show me." I don't look up from the report in my hands. Numbers. Shipments. Distribution routes we've controlled for six years.
He slides a phone across my desk. Photographs. Plastic bags stamped with our signature mark. Τhe double-headed eagle that tells every dealer in Chicago this product belongs to the Baganov Bratva.
Except these bags aren't ours.
"Found them in Pilsen," Igor says. "Three street corners. Same stamp, same packaging. Product's shit quality. Cutting it with something that's already killed two users."
