Good.
I keep my hand on her all the way to the door.
One of Angelo’s men opens before I can knock.
He looks at me, at Ayla, at my hand still wrapped around her arm, and has the good sense not to say a word.
I step inside with her beside me.
Warmth hits first. Then voices.
Santo’s.
Angelo’s.
And Vasilisa’s—tight enough that I can hear the fear in it before I even turn the corner.
I let Ayla go.
Only because we’re inside now.
Her arm slips out of my hand immediately, and for a second I feel the absence of it like a missing weapon.
Santo’s voice carries clearer from the sitting room ahead, low and controlled in that way he gets when everything around him is one wrong breath from turning ugly.
Then her.Vasilisa.
“It’s a house, Santo. Just like ours. I wasn’t safe there.”
The words hit the room like a gunshot wrapped in silk.
Interesting.
I glance once at Ayla.
She’s gone quieter somehow, shoulders tight, eyes moving already, measuring the house, the exits, the danger. Good. Let her keep busy with that instead of trying to bolt.
Angelo’s voice follows, calm and practiced. “We’ve doubled the men on the perimeter, Tiny. You won’t be alone. Adriana will be here, and—”
That’s where I step fully into the room.
“And Ayla has a mean right hook.”
Every head turns.
I keep my pace easy, hands loose at my sides, like the whole house isn’t vibrating with nerves and fear and the sour stink of grief. Ayla moves beside me quiet as shadow.
“And,” I add, looking at Vasilisa, “I’ve got an extra gun if it’ll help you sleep at night, Kisa.”
I open my arms.
She strides toward me almost sweet before she slaps me hard enough to crack the room open.
Ayla startles beside me.
My jaw locks.
For one second, all I see is white. I exhale slowly and brush my fingers over the heat blooming in my cheek.
