“Get over yourself.” He drops into the chair across the desk. “Go get the girl. You’ve been watching her for a year. Isn’t it time?”
I grunt. The whisky is easier to deal with than his face.
“Are you really going to let her marry this nerd?”
“Her choice.” I turn the glass once and set it down before I give in to the temptation to throw it across the room. “She’s free to do what she wants.”
“If she’s so free,” he says, with the patience of a man who has been having this conversation in some form for twelve months, “why are you stalking her?”
“What do you want, Daniil?” Not a question. “Are you this concerned about my sex life because you don’t have one of your own?”
“My sex life is fine.” He leans back. “Healthy.“ He arches a brow and lets the snide remark sit. "But that’s not why I’m here. Artur’s family is making noise. About taking us out.“ His eyes stay level. ”You, in particular. You didn’t have to kill him like that. Brutal. Even for you."
“His business cut short my time with her. Just his bad luck that someone had to pay.”
Daniil absorbs that without blinking. He’s been at my side long enough that nothing shows on his face he doesn’t intend to show. “Watch your back. Until we shake them out of the sewers, take some time at the safe house. Let things quiet.”
“I don’t run from rats.”
“Then don’t run.” He stands, straightening his jacket. Moves toward the door with the ease of a man who has already planted exactly what he came to plant. One pause at the threshold. “Take your girl. Go play nice. Beg forgiveness.” Another beat. “Go the Dimitri way. Fall at her feet.”
The door closes behind him. The silence is deafening. I sit with it for a long time.
Dimitri. My cousin, who walked into a coffee shop, walked out a different man. He dragged her into his bloody world and then had the audacity to be happy about it. Who sends me photos of his son now—this small, warm, ordinary miracle—with a look on his face that I barely recognize. I mocked him for it. Called it sentimentality and told Rafail the man had gone soft.
I also know—and I have known for a year—that the folder on my laptop that I refuse to name is proof that I'm not much better.
Viktor’s message came six weeks ago while my hands were still red from settling Artur’s account. Four lines.The teacher. Engaged. Wedding date set. Details?
I stared at those four lines until they blurred. Then I told him to send the details. Then I cleaned my hands and went back to work.
Larry Stevens takes forty seconds to pull. That's how fucking clean he is. Nothing to hide. No drama in his family background. No arrest records to scour. He's a plain, boring tax accountant. Sensible car. A proposal at a restaurant and a ring that equals exactly three months of his salary. He follows every rule. He picks her up from her job or her home and takes her on nice, simple dates. Dates that I'm sure she would label asfineorokay. He never stays over.Which is why he still breathes.A man who would give her a sanitized life—the house, the children, the whole safe, ordinary story she told me she wanted. Not a speck of dirt or blood will ever reach their family. That's what I want forher. It's why I sent her home and told myself I’d done the right thing. She was right to want it. She deserves it.
I’m going to ruin it, anyway.
Fall at her feet.
***
The venue is a converted Victorian in Cambridge—pompous white columns, old money dressed up as charm. Two valets are out front watching their phones. A coordinator inside the entrance too stretched thin to notice a man who knows how to make himself invisible. Viktor’s detail is thorough. It always is. The bridal suite is on the second floor, east wing, overlooking the garden. I take the stairs.
The suite door is unlocked. It only makes me hate him more. What kind of man wouldn't make sure she's protected every second of her fucking life? If he's so sure she's his, he should have armed guards posted. But then she's not his.She's mine.
She’s at the window. White dress. Veil pinned back from her face. Her hands are clasped in front of her—fingers laced, knuckles tight—and she’s looking at the garden below with drooping shoulders. A maid of honor’s voice carries from behind a folding screen. She nods at something the woman says without turning her head. Her maid of honor is still talking, but she's not responding.
“Laura.” She turns. Whatever she was expecting when that door opened—it wasn’t me. My name forms on her lips. Doesn’t make it out. She jumps to her feet, and the maid of honor comes from behind the screen. She's not fully dressed, but I only have eyes for Laura.
I don’t give her a chance to react. I wrap my arm around her waist. Her feet leave the floor as I throw her over my shoulderin a fireman's carry. The maid of honor shouts something, and I put myself between them and the door without breaking stride.
“What—put me down—“ Her voice, in my ear, furious and close. Her fists landing against my back with an impressive and completely ineffective consistency. ”This is mywedding day—are you out of yourmind—“
“I know what day it is.”
“Then why—Maxim—“
“Stop moving.”
“Absolutely not—“
