I wait.
“It’s associated with one of your father’s old logistics people,” Sergei says. “Not enough to prove direct involvement, but enough to smell him all over it.”
Ilya leans back, studying me. “The problem is the girl.”
I take a slow drink. “Her name is Zatanna.”
His mouth quirks. “That right there is the problem. You corrected me.”
I ignore that. “No one should know she matters.”
Anton glances at Sergei. “We’re not sure they do.”
I look at him.
He continues. “It may not be about feelings. It may be simpler than that. She was with you. She left with you. She’s visible now.”
I hate how logical that sounds.
“There’s no way,” I say, more to myself than to them, “that anybody knows what she is to me.”
Ilya lifts a brow. “And what is she to you?”
I don’t answer.
Because I don’t have one that doesn’t make me sound like a man losing his grip.
He leans back on the sofa, studying me over the rim of his glass. “I’ve seen the girl,” he says. “She’s less than average. Rather plain, actually. You’ve had better.”
The room goes still.
My hand tightens around my drink so hard the glass creaks.
Sergei and Anton both go quiet, smart enough to know when not to move.
I turn my head slowly and look at Ilya.
He sees it immediately. The reaction. The mistake.
And then, the bastard, he smiles.
“Wow,” he says softly. “You’re really into her.”
“I wouldn’t finish that sentence if I were you.”
But he’s already too entertained now, too deep in. “So marry her.”
The words land harder than they should.
I go completely still.
Because the thought has occurred to me. More than once. More than I care to admit.
Zatanna in white. Zatanna with my name. Zatanna at my table, in my bed, carrying my child. A wife in every sense that matters.
The fantasy is instant. Treacherous. Too vivid.
Which is exactly why I kill it.
