"She saw me protect her from a man who was going to use her as a bargaining chip." I lean forward. "She's not a liability, Dimitri. She's mine. And I protect what's mine."
The silence stretches. Then Dimitri laughs—a short, sharp sound.
"Fifty years," he says. "Fifty years you've been alone. Refused every woman I offered. Told me attachments were weakness." He shakes his head. "And now you're sitting here defending a nineteen-year-old orphan like she's the crown jewels."
"She's worth more than crown jewels."
"I believe you think so." He waves a hand. "Go. Handle the Walsh situation. But Leonid—" His eyes are serious now, all humor gone. "Don't let her make you stupid. You're too valuable to lose."
I stand. "I'll be in touch."
I handle it.
I don't need to explain what that means. The doorman who saw too much has a sudden accident—nothing dramatic, nothingtraceable. A fall on wet stairs. A broken neck. Tragic, but these things happen.
By three o'clock, the problem is contained. The trail goes cold. Walsh's people have nothing.
But the coldness stays with me. The old Leonid—the one who kills without blinking, who handles problemsquietly and permanently, who spent fifty years alone because he knew better than to want anything—he's awake now. Watching.
Reminding me who I really am.
I sit in my car outside the penthouse for ten minutes before going up. Trying to shake it off. Trying to remember how to be the man Lily sees when she looks at me.
The man who makes her feel safe.
The man who loves her.
But all I can see is my father's face. The gun in his hand. The blood on the walls.
If you love nothing, nothing can destroy you.
I go upstairs.
She knows something's wrong the moment I walk in.
I can see it in her face—the way her smile falters, the way her eyes search mine. She's at the stove, stirring something that smells like garlic and tomatoes, wearing my shirt and nothing else.
"Hey." She sets down the spoon, crosses to me. "You're home early."
"Meeting ended sooner than expected."
"Good news?"
"Handled." I pull her into my arms, bury my face in her hair. She smells like soap and herbs andhome. "It's handled."
She holds me for a long moment. Doesn't ask questions. Just lets me breathe her in.
"Leonid." Her voice is gentle. "What happened?"
"Nothing."
"Don't lie to me." She pulls back, cups my face in her hands. "You're shaking."
I am. I hadn't noticed.
"Come sit down," she says. "Dinner can wait."
She leads me to the couch. Pulls me down beside her. Curls into my side like she belongs there—which she does, she always does—and waits.
