The afternoon moves on without interruption. Meetings blur into briefings, decisions made and approved without friction. I move through the corporate side of my life the way I always do, attentive where required, detached where it serves me.
Nothing shows on the surface. That’s intentional.
By early evening, my phone vibrates with a message from my assistant confirming Ivan Malenko’s availability. He’s accepted the invitation without delay.
I feel no satisfaction, only certainty. The meeting is set for two days from now, enough time for observation, for Ivan to prepare, and for Rowan to continue believing her life exists separate from mine.
I leave the office later than planned and drive aimlessly for several minutes before turning toward my estate. The gates open as expected. The grounds remain exactly as they should.
Inside, nothing has changed. The house is quiet and familiar. I move through it without slowing, setting aside the day as I go until there is only silence.
I pour a glass of vodka but don’t drink it. Instead, I stand near the windows, the city lights distant beyond the trees, and allow my thoughts to settle where they insist on going.
Rowan at work. Her attention fully given to those who depend on her. Her mother’s voicemail. Family dinners. Expectations rooted in care rather than obligation. Normal life brushing close enough to mine that I can feel the difference.
I should distance myself. That would be the intelligent decision. Instead, I remain where I am.
Later, once night has fully fallen, I receive confirmation that Ivan’s background packet has been assembled. I skim the file without rushing. Ivan’s public record is clean. His professionalreputation has been built with care. His connections are broad enough to suggest ambition rather than loyalty.
Still, there are absences where continuity should exist. Gaps that don’t happen by accident. Ivan Malenko is careful, and men like that reveal themselves over time, not through action but through what they avoid.
I close the file and turn back to the windows. When the truth surfaces, it will be because I gave it room to do so.
13
ROWAN
The tires crunch softly over the gravel as Leo pulls into my mother’s driveway, the sound immediately familiar in a way that tightens behind my ribs. The house sits exactly where it always has, low and unchanged, framed by bare winter branches and a porch light that glows warm against the dark. The curtains are drawn halfway, just enough to suggest life moving inside without revealing too much, a choice rooted in privacy rather than secrecy, the way Mom has always lived.
I rest my hands in my lap, fingers curled together, still warm from the car’s heater. In the front seat, Leo and the other enforcer remain where they are, eyes forward, attention fixed on the house and the street beyond it.
Kiren moves first. He opens my door before I reach for the handle. He doesn’t say anything as I step out, just watches until I’m clear of the car, then closes the door behind me with care.
Beside me, he pauses. He doesn’t glance back at the car or reach for his phone. He simply takes in the house. His posture stays relaxed, but his focus never leaves the space. The realization sinks in all at once that I’ve brought him somewhere unprotected. This isn’t a test. It’s trust.
The air bites at my cheeks, laced with the faint scent of cinnamon and baked sugar drifting from the house. Mom’s been busy. I start toward the porch, and Kiren falls into step beside me, close without crowding, leaving Leo and Karp in the car to watch the outside of the house as the porch light washes over us.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
The question isn’t about nerves. It’s about choice.
I nod once. “Yes.”
He doesn’t press. Instead, he adjusts his stride to match mine as we walk up the path together, staying at my side without crowding me. The porch boards creak under our weight, the sound so familiar it pulls at my memory before I can stop it.
For a moment, I see my father here. His boots scuffing the same boards. His keys jingling in his hand. The way he used to pause before opening the door, like he wanted to savor being home. I push the thought away before it can take root. Not because it hurts, though it does, but because tonight isn’t about loss. It’s about what remains.
The door opens before I knock.
“Rowan,” my mother says, her voice already smiling.
Warmth hits me immediately, the room filled with light. The kitchen glows behind her, every surface alive with activity. Counters are crowded with mixing bowls and cooling racks. Plates are lined with careful symmetry. The air breathes with the soft chaos of preparation, punctuated by the low murmur of the oven fan and the clink of utensils.
Dessert, in all its fully realized glory.
“I knew it,” I say, slipping my coat off as I step inside. “You didn’t wait.”
Mom’s mouth curves into a knowing smile. “You stopped returning my calls.”
