I don’t listen.
My hand is steady.
Locked.
“Who does the number belong to?” I repeat.
Matteo stares at the gun.
Then at me.
And then—
He laughs.
The sound is unhinged.
“Go ahead,” he says. “Kill me.”
My grip tightens.
“I don’t know anything,” he continues. “After he hired me—after Timofey brought me in—Anton approached me.”
A beat.
“But not physically,” he adds quickly. “Never in person. Always through messages. Through that number.”
His eyes flick between us.
“I don’t know where he is,” he insists. “I don’t know anything beyond what I was told to send.”
My finger hovers on the trigger.
My chest is rising too fast.
Because part of me—part of me wants to believe him.
And another part wants to pull the trigger anyway.
Behind me, Timofey steps closer.
Slow. Controlled.
“Valeria,” he says again.
Quieter this time.
“Let me do it,zolotse.”
No.
My fingers tighten around the trigger.
I’ve never been one to shy away from defending myself.
And I won’t start now.
Not when they’ve brought this war into my home.
