We talked for another hour, strolling around the back of the house until Anya had to meet some lady in town about a fitting.
I was turning back toward the house when I saw him.
A delivery boy, no older than sixteen, was approaching. Thin, nervous, with dark hair falling into his eyes.
My feet carried me forward before I could think.
“Please, ma’am. I was told to give this directly to Mila Petrov. No one else.”
Everything in me went cold.
“I’ll take it.” I held out my hand.
The boy practically threw the envelope at me, his fingers shaking, before disappearing into the city like smoke. I stood there, snow beginning to fall, and stared at my name written in achingly familiar handwriting.
I couldn’t open it there. I couldn’t let the guards see or risk the cameras. So I walked back inside on numb legs, the envelope burning against my palm like a brand.
I opened it once I was in the hallway.
The letter was short. Brutal in its simplicity.
They’re coming. You’re not safe. Trust no one. I’ll find you.
My father’s handwriting. My father’s words.
I read it three times, each word carving itself into my brain, before the shaking started. I pressed my back against the wall and slid down until I was sitting on cold marble, the letter clutched in both hands.
They’re coming.
Who? The people who’d forced us to run? The Italians circling Alexei’s empire?
Did it matter?
Trust no one.
But I had to trust someone. I was drowning in a world I didn’t understand, surrounded by violence and secrets. Alexei was the only solid thing I had left—the only person who could keep me alive.
Except he was also the man who would hunt my father down with the precision of a wolf tracking wounded prey. He would kill him without hesitation, without mercy, if he knew.
I’ll find you.
A promise or a threat? Both, maybe.
I didn’t know how long I sat there. Long enough for my legs to go numb, for the snow outside to thicken against the windows. Eventually, I went into our bedroom and into the bathroom, folding the letter and hiding it under the sink.
Then I stood, washed my face, and tried to remember how to breathe.
**********
Alexei came home after dark.
I heard the commotion first—car doors slamming, low voices, the particular quality of silence that meant something had gone wrong. Or right, depending on the perspective. I was in the library, pretending to read, when he appeared in the doorway.
Blood spattered his white shirt. Not his—I’d learned to tell the difference. Other people’s blood, dark and drying at the collar and cuffs of his shirt. His knuckles were raw, split open in places. But his eyes when they found me were calm, almost gentle.
“Mila.”
Just my name. Like a prayer or an apology.
