Her father. King. Her mother. The history. The symbolism. If Mikhail wanted to send a message to Greenport, there is no cleaner way than bleeding it in public and making sure the right people are forced to watch.
I park, cut the engine, and step out first. Habit. Delilah follows a beat later, and the sound of her heels on pavement pulls my attention despite myself. I don’t look at her right away. If I do, I’ll start cataloging all the ways she’s exposed, all the places I’d put myself between her and the world if it came to that, all the ways white makes her stand out against a crowd full of softer colors.
I don’t get that luxury.
Her dad spots us almost immediately.
He looks older than the last time I saw him. Not weaker—just worn in the way men get when they’ve buried too much and still keep showing up. His face breaks into a grin when he sees Delilah, pride written so clearly it makes something twist hard in my chest. He moves toward her with his arms already half-open, like every year she gets older still surprises him and delights him in equal measure.
I hang back while they embrace, eyes still moving, still counting. I catch fragments of conversation—her mother calling from behind him, Delilah’s small laugh, the rustle of dresses and handshakes and warmth that should feel harmless—but my focus never leaves the crowd.
Too many phones.
Too many smiles.
Too many blind spots.
I slip a hand into my jacket and feel the familiar weight there. Reassuring. Necessary. A promise in cold metal.
“Jon,” her father says, pulling me into a clasped handshake that turns into a brief, hard hug. “Didn’t think you’d actually make it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say, and for once it’s not just a line.
He claps my shoulder, oblivious to the way my attention keeps drifting back to Delilah, to how she positions herself just slightly closer to me than she needs to. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Enough for me. Like she knows, even if she doesn’t consciously realize it, that this is where she’s safest. That if the room goes wrong, I’m the direction she’ll turn without thinking.
I hate that I’m right.
Her mother hugs me next, all perfume and fondness and the kind of familiarity that makes this whole thing worse. She thanks me for coming, tells me I clean up well, asks if I’m staying forcake. I answer where I should, nod when expected, and keep mapping the room around us even while I smile.
As we move inside, the noise swells—music, conversation, glasses clinking. Normal. Civilian. Exactly the kind of environment that makes professionals sloppy and enemies patient. Chandeliers throw warm light over polished floors. White linens. Navy ribbons. Framed photographs of Greenport service years lining one wall like history can protect the people standing under it. The whole place smells like expensive liquor, buttercream, and old money trying to look patriotic.
I lean in close to Delilah as we walk, my voice pitched low. “If anything feels off, you don’t second-guess it. You come to me. Immediately.”
She nods without argument, eyes forward. “I know.”
I glance at her. “I mean it.”
“So do I.” Her mouth barely moves when she says it, but I hear the edge beneath it. Not defiance. Resolve. “I’m not freelancing anything tonight.”
That should reassure me. It doesn’t. Knowing and surviving are two different things, and I’ve buried too many people who knew better.
I scan the room again, mind already running contingencies, routes, worst-case scenarios. Somewhere in all of it, a thought cuts through sharper than the rest:
If Mikhail makes his move today, he’s not taking her.
Not while I’m breathing.
And as the doors close behind us and the party fully swallows us whole, I realize with absolute clarity—
This isn’t a celebration.
It’s a countdown.
***
For a long while, nothing happens.
That’s the problem.
