There’s a look in his eyes I've never seen before. "You're leaving her to a man like Moretti because she broke? She’s not one of us, Konstantin. She was never meant to hold a line."
I close the safe and spin the lock.
"She made her choice," I say, my heart turning to stone. "She chose to speak. Now she lives with the consequences."
I turn my back. "Prepare the men," I command. "We hit the Foundry at midnight, but we don't bring the tablet. We go in shooting. We breach the roof. Breach the doors. If she survives the crossfire, good. If not..."
I let the sentence hang.
Ivan looks at me with horror. "You’re leaving her to die."
"I’m choosing the Bratva," I correct him. "I’m choosing the survival of this organization over a woman who betrayed us."
"I know what that tablet is worth," he says, stepping toward me. "And I know she’s a Blackwood. But you're the most brutal enforcer I've ever served, Konstantin. You always find a way to win. If you let her die tonight because you're too proud to find a third option, you'll spend the rest of your life hating the man in the mirror. You won't be a King. You'll be a ghost in an empty house."
He pauses, his gaze heavy with a truth I don't want to hear. "She’s your wife, Konstantin."
"She’s a liability," I snarl. "Get out. Prep the team."
Ivan stares at me for a long moment, then he shakes his head and turns to leave.
The door clicks shut.
I’m alone.
I’ve won. I kept the asset. I’ve protected the business. All acts of a man fit to be the next Pakhan.
So why does it feel like I died?
Breathing comes in ragged pulls. My hand throbs, and my heart aches.
I need to change. To rid myself of the day’s carnage. I walk down the hallway to the master bedroom, footsteps echoing on the marble. A ghost haunting my own life.
I push open the doors.
The room is dark and cold. The curtains are still drawn from this morning.
My eyes land on the bed.
The pillows are still indented from where we slept. The sheets are rumpled. A chaotic map of what we shared before the sun rose, and I sent her into the lion's den.
I walk to her side of the bed and sit on the edge.
I can still smell her—warm skin, sweat, and that dark feminine scent that belongs only to her. It tightens around my throat like a noose.
Refusing to look at the bed, I avert my gaze to the floor. The velvet dress she wore to the dinner lies in a heap where I threw it. The emerald earrings I removed from her ears sit on the nightstand.
I close my eyes.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
I told myself I was protecting her. That the Sentinel was safe. That sending her to the Depot was a strategic masterstroke.
But it was a lie.
I put her in that car because I needed a distraction. I was so sure Moretti would target the warehouse that I didn't see the obvious move.
Arrogance made me weak. Foolish. I played a game of chess while Moretti wielded a sledgehammer.
