She hates me right now. That’s fine. Hate is something I can work with. It’s better than fear, better than helplessness. Hate means she’s still fighting.
And something tells me that Kirsten Berry—Kirsten Karpov, now—is going to be one hell of a fighter.
I turn back to my laptop and pull up the surveillance feed from Wallace’s office. He’s on the phone, speaking fast. I don’t need to hear the words to know what he’s saying.
They expected her to come running back with information. When she doesn’t, they’ll know something’s changed.
Let them wonder. Let them worry.
Because whatever move they make next, I’ll be ready. And so will my wife.
Whether she knows it or not.
Chapter 5 - Kirsten
I make it all the way to the elevator before he catches up with me.
“Going somewhere?”
I jab the down button three more times, as if that will make the doors open faster. “Home. I’m going home.”
“No, you’re not.”
I spin around to face him. He’s standing there with his hands in his pockets, looking completely unruffled by the fact that he just detonated a bomb in the middle of my life.
“Excuse me?”
“Your apartment isn’t safe.” He says it like he’s discussing the weather. “I suspect anyone with basic lock-picking skills could get in. And after today, there are people who might want to do exactly that.”
“You mean Wallace and Tillman.”
“Among others.” He pulls one hand from his pocket and checks his watch. “Once they realize you’re not reporting back to them, they’ll start asking questions. When they find out you’re married to me, they’ll assume you’ve switched sides. That makes you a liability.”
“I haven’t switched sides. I don’t even know what sides there are.”
“Doesn’t matter. Perception is reality in my world.” The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. He gestures for me to enter first. “You’re coming home with me.”
I don’t move. “Like hell I am.”
“Kirsten,” His voice drops lower, “I’m not asking.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “And I’m not agreeing. You’ve already forced me into a marriage I didn’t want. You don’t get to dictate where I sleep, too.”
He steps closer, and I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. This close, I can see the faint stubble along his jaw and the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes. He looks tired. Good. I hope this whole scheme is exhausting him.
“Let me paint you a picture,” he begins. “You go back to your apartment tonight. You triple-check the locks, maybe push a chair under the doorknob for good measure. You lie awake for hours, jumping at every sound in the hallway. Maybe you actually manage to fall asleep around three a.m.”
He pauses, and I hate that I’m listening. Hate that his words are already crawling under my skin.
“Around four, two men kick in your door. They’re professionals, so you don’t even have time to scream before one of them has a hand over your mouth. They drag you out of bed, shove you into a car, and take you somewhere no one will ever find you. That’s not a threat. That’s a prediction based on how these people operate. I’ve seen it happen before. I won’t let it happen to you.”
My stomach turns. I want to tell him he’s being dramatic. That this is Chicago, not some war zone. Things like that don’t happen to normal people with normal jobs and normal lives.
But I’m not normal anymore, am I? I’m married to a Bratva boss. I have documents burned into my brain that people are willing to kill for. And two men upstairs are probably already plotting ways to silence me.
“Wait.” I hold up a hand. “You just spent ten minutes telling me that no one would dare touch your wife. That I’m untouchable now. Sacred, I think you said. So which is it?”
“You’re protected once they know. But right now, Wallace and Tillman are expecting you to report back to them. When you don’t show up with information, they’ll start digging. They’ll find the marriage certificate—it’s public record. And when they realize you’ve tied yourself to me instead of cooperating with them…” He lets that hang in the air. “They’ll see you as a traitor. Someone who knows too much and chose the wrong side.”
