“It’s okay, baby.” The lie burns my throat.
My phone—just a few feet away on the floor. Glass shards scattered between us and escape. I need to reach it. Need to call for help. But with Hannah clinging to me, I can barely move.
I try anyway. Elbow to his ribs. He barely flinches. I aim for his jaw, my knuckles connecting with something solid, and pain explodes through my hand.
Then his fist closes in my hair.
The scream that tears out of me is animal. Pure agony as he uses my hair like a handle, dragging me backward across the floor. Hannah’s cries intensify, her grip on me tightening until I can barely breathe.
“Please—” The word breaks apart. “Please, she’s just a baby—”
He doesn’t respond. Just keeps pulling, my scalp on fire, tears streaming down my face despite my efforts to stay quiet for Hannah’s sake.
This is it.
This is how we die.
New footsteps. Heavy. Fast.
The grip on my hair releases suddenly and I gasp, cradling Hannah closer as another figure in black crashes into my attacker.
They collide with brutal force, knocking the first man sideways. I scramble backward on my hands and knees, one arm locked around Hannah, the other reaching blindly for my phone.
My fingers close around it.
Call 911. That’s all I have to do. Call—
But I can’t look away.
The second man moves like violence incarnate. Larger than the first, faster, every punch landing with devastating precision. He wrenches the attacker’s arm back at an unnatural angle. The first man tries to fight back but he’s outmatched.
The second figure slams him against the wall so hard the impact shakes the floor. A framed photo crashes to the ground.
Hannah flinches in my arms, and I press my hand over her ear, trying to shield her from the sounds of bone meeting drywall.
They move into the lamplight. Both still masked. The second man’s hand closes around the attacker’s throat, cutting off his air supply. The choking sounds make my stomach turn.
“One move, and I’ll break your neck.”
Everything stops.
That voice.
Russian accent. Low and commanding and impossible.
No.
The room tilts. My vision blurs at the edges. I can’t breathe—can’t think past the roaring in my ears.
Is it—?
It can’t be him. I heard the gunshots. Heard his body hit the ground. I saw the news headline, read it until the words burned into my brain:Nikolai Rogov, billionaire with questionable reputation, found dead.
I stood by Sophia and Timur at his funeral. They held me while I shattered.
I buried him.
The second man’s eyes find mine across the chaos.
