Anton raises both hands slightly. “Understood.”
Ilya just watches me, far too pleased with himself. “You really do have it bad.”
I look at him. “Say that again.”
He smiles into his glass and wisely says nothing.
Good. Because I am already too close to admitting things I can’t afford to make real. The apartment feels too warm, the city too loud beyond the glass. I move toward the window, one hand in my pocket, and stare out at the black river cutting through Manhattan.
One week. That’s all I need.
Find a bride. Survive my father. Keep Zatanna out of the line of fire.
It should be simple.
But behind me, Ilya’s voice comes again, quieter this time.
“For what it’s worth, Aleksei… the women you think are safest are usually the ones who cost you everything.”
I don’t turn around. Because if I do, I might tell him that I already know. And that it’s too late.
I turn back from the window. “Track my father.”
Sergei nods immediately. “Already started.”
“More closely,” I say. “I want his movements, his meetings, his calls if we can get them. If he’s even thinking about making another move, I want to know before he does.”
Anton leans forward, forearms on his knees. “We’ll look into it. But so far, nothing’s come out of his camp.”
I narrow my eyes. “Nothing?”
“Nothing about the attack,” Sergei says. “Nothing about the girl, either.”
Zatanna.
Even hearing the absence of her name does something ugly to my chest.
Anton continues, “If he knows about her, he’s keeping it quiet. Which would be smarter than broadcasting it. But honestly? From what we’ve picked up, he doesn’t seem interested in her.”
I wait.
Sergei flips open the folder again and glances at a note. “What he has been saying, repeatedly, is that you’ll never make the deadline. He thinks you’ll never find a bride in time to secure the inheritance.”
I let out a humorless breath.
That sounds like him.
Not because he believes in fate. But because he believes in me failing. He’s always liked that version of the story best.
“He talks too much,” Ilya mutters. “That’s usually useful.”
“Yes,” I say. “Unless he’s learned to keep the important parts to himself.”
Sergei shrugs once. “Possible. But if he’s behind the attack, he’s not bragging. Not yet.”
Not yet.
The room goes quiet for a second, all of us considering the same thing. If my father didn’t send them, then someone else did. Someone with enough nerve to move on me and enough interest to put hands on Zatanna.
