Chapter 19
Anton
Ray’s house is locked up tighter than a casino vault. Twelve-foot walls, iron spikes, cameras disguised as lawn ornaments. Inside, though, it’s straight suburban postcard: blue pool, trimmed grass, dog chasing sprinklers, kids screaming like that’s their job.
I sit at the patio table with Lev, Boris, and Dima, all of us dressed for a funeral in the middle of summer. We look like we don’t belong here. Because we don’t.
Emma—Ray’s youngest—climbs out of the pool, dripping wet, curls sticking to her cheeks. Marches over to us without hesitation, like four men in black aren’t the least bit intimidating.
“Are you my daddy’s work friends?” she asks. Her gaze lands on Boris, who hasn’t touched sunlight in years.
“Something like that,” Ray says.
She ignores him, eyes locked on Dima. “Do you draw pictures on your neck?”
Dima freezes. The man who can field-strip a rifle blindfolded has been undone by a three-year-old’s question.
“Emma,” Ray warns gently.
“It’s okay,” Dima says, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. “They’re… stories. From when I was younger.”
“Can you draw me a story?”
“Maybe later, malyshka.”
She grins like she’s just made a new best friend and runs back toward the pool, where a six-year-old boy with the same curly hair is attempting to teach Zeus the golden retriever how to swim.
Lev leans back in his chair, smirking. “She’ll have you doing princess tattoos before the week’s out.”
Dima glares. Zeus barks like he agrees.
I watch the chaos—kids, dog, water everywhere—and it lands sideways in my chest. A life with no blood on the ground. No enemies circling. Just sunscreen and popsicles.
And for one stupid second, my head goes there. Mary. What it would look like if she were in that pool chair, rolling her eyes at me while some kid with her curls and my temper demanded another round of cannonballs.
I cut the thought off hard. That’s not my world.
Ray cracks open a beer, doesn’t bother offering us one.
The can hisses loudly over the sound of splashing. He drops into the chair at the head of the table, kicks back, eyes on the pool where his daughter’s trying to boss the dog into floating on a noodle.
He pushes a plate of watermelon wedges closer to the edge of the table. Pink triangles dripping juice. The kids swarm it like sharks in a feeding frenzy.
“Sorry Sarah’s not around,” Ray says, still watching the pool. “She’s got back-to-back classes at the studio. Helper called in sick this morning. So—” He gestures at the chaos. “You get the circus.”
Lev picks up a wedge of watermelon and grins. “Best security I’ve ever seen. Anyone gets too close, we unleash the toddler.”
Emma screeches in delight and cannonballs back into the water. Zeus howls like he’s the one drowning.
Ray doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even look away from the pool when he says, “You’re not here for small talk. What the hell are you planning for Friday?”
I glance at Boris. He’s already sliding his laptop out of its case. The glow from the screen makes him look even paler than usual.
Emma’s voice cuts in. “Can I help?” She’s dripping all over the patio, leaning dangerously close to Boris’s keyboard.
Boris stares at her like she’s a new species of bug. “No.”
She pouts. “But I’m good at games.”
Lev snorts. “Let her code the cameras, Boris. Might get us in faster.”
Boris mutters something in Russian that makes Dima smirk.
Ray clears his throat. “Feds are already circling Brightside. Financial Crimes Division’s had them on the board for months, but Caleb’s too clean on paper.
They need something live.” He takes a slow drink from the can, eyes still on his kids like he’s just giving us the weather report.
“I can put the right ears in the room on Friday. CIA liaison, couple Bureau boys. They’ll be watching Timofey and your banker friend without knowing they’re watching Mary. ”
A splash interrupts him—Emma is climbing out of the pool, shouting at her brother for hogging the floatie. Ray doesn’t miss a beat, raising his voice without turning his head.
“Share or I’m shutting the pool down.”
The kids groan in unison.
He lowers his voice again, back to us. “You intercept the move on her. My contacts get the proof. Caleb’s name lands on a federal desk Monday morning.”
Dima nods once. No wasted words. Lev drums his fingers on the table like he’s already bored.
Emma reappears at Boris’s side, dripping again. “Do you have stickers on your computer?”
“No.”
“You should.”
Boris looks at her, deadpan. “Why?”
She shrugs. “Because it’s boring.”
Lev bursts out laughing, loud enough that the dog barks again.
And somehow, in the middle of all this—watermelon juice, wet footprints, kids screaming—I’m planning how to gut Timofey without getting blood on the carpet.
Emma abandons Boris after deciding he’s hopeless, and pads across the patio straight for me. Her little feet slap against the stone, leaving a trail of water. She stops in front of my chair, head tipped back, eyes squinting at the ink on my hand.
“What does that say?” She presses a wet finger against the letters on my knuckles, trying to sound them out like she’s reading a bedtime book. The word comes out mangled, but she’s proud of herself anyway.
My hand stiffens. Nobody touches me without bleeding for it. Except her.
She climbs half onto my lap before I can stop her, swimsuit dripping cold through my shirt. Little hands grab at me like I’m a jungle gym.
Across the table, Ray lifts his beer, smirking like the bastard knows exactly what he’s doing.
“You wear that look better than you think, Malikov.”
Lev chokes on his watermelon, laughing. “Oh, Father of the Year.”
I glare, but the words hit somewhere I don’t like. Somewhere that makes me think of Mary—her hands, her eyes, that stubborn mouth. A picture I have no business letting in.
I shift Emma back onto her own feet, gently, because she doesn’t understand who I am.
“Not for you, malyshka,” I murmur.
She pouts but gets distracted the second her brother yells from the pool, midair in a wild cannonball. The splash soaks the patio, sprays our feet.
Ray leans back, still grinning. “Don’t let him break his neck. I’ve gotta take Emma in before she floods the lawn. Pee-pee emergency.”
He scoops the toddler up like it’s second nature and disappears into the house, leaving us with the boy—Max, I think—still flinging himself into the deep end like gravity’s a challenge. Zeus barks every time he hits the water, cheering him on.
I watch the chaos, jaw tight. “Enough jokes. We lay this out clean.”
Boris adjusts the laptop on his knees, shielding it from stray splashes. “I loop the feeds. Inside and out. Their men won’t see me coming.”
Dima: “I’ll take the service corridors. Intercept team.”
Lev grins, still chewing. “Guess that makes me the waiter again. Don’t worry, boss—I’ll even carry a tray without shooting anyone. Probably.”
“Stick to the plan,” I tell him. “We keep her close. Any move they make, we cut it off before it starts.”
The boy climbs onto the diving board, arms spread wide, shouting something about “the ultimate super bomb.”
I watch him jump, water exploding around him, and my stomach does something I can’t explain.
Mary’s face flashes in my head again. And for one second, I’m not thinking about the gala, or Timofey, or Caleb. I’m thinking about what it would feel like if this were my life.
And then I shut it down. Because it isn’t.
I check my watch—4.30 PM—a habit more than need. Mary should be at her grandmother’s house by now. Dima has one of his contacts keeping an eye on things. A quiet guy who looks like a handyman but carries a Sig Sauer under his tool belt.
The way she handled herself at the bank today. Not the same woman who stumbled into my apartment weeks ago. She stood up, sharp as glass, and then planted that device under Caleb’s nose like it was routine.
I flex my hand on the table, knuckles cracking, and tilt my head toward Dima. “She in?”
He doesn’t glance up, just shifts his eyes to me. “Yes. Two minutes ago. Safe.”
Max’s laughter explodes from the pool, high-pitched and wild. Zeus barks like he’s trying to compete.
I drag my gaze back to the table. “Anything from Caleb?”
Dima shakes his head. “Nothing direct. He made a call after leaving the bank. Russian. Kept it vague. But it wasn’t business as usual.”
Lev whistles low, leaning back in his chair. “Did you hear her with those two office harpies? She made them look like amateurs. Didn’t think she had that in her.”
Dima nods once. “Good instincts. Quick hands.”
Boris doesn’t look up from his laptop, but his mouth shifts, the closest thing he gives to a smile. “Cleaner than some of you in training.”
I don’t show it, but pride hits me hard and fast. Mine. Like her win belongs to me.
A shout cuts across the yard. “Help!” Max’s voice, shrill, half swallowed by water. He’s clinging to the side of the pool, too close to the deep end, feet scrabbling. Zeus is barking like he’s sounding the alarm.
I push back my chair and cross the patio in three strides. Grab the boy by the back of his swim shirt, haul him up and out, dripping and coughing. He’s lighter than he looks.
“You trying to drown yourself, malchik?” I mutter, setting him on his feet.
Max wipes his face with both hands, grins up at me through dripping curls.
“Thanks, mister.”
He bolts back toward the diving board like nothing happened. I shake my head and go back to the table.
“Mary stays put tonight,” I say, sliding back into my chair. “But tomorrow? She goes back to the bank. That’s exposure.”
Dima leans forward. “I’ll keep eyes on the grandmother’s house. Same man. He won’t move.”
Lev shrugs. “We should arm her. Teach her how not to die if someone grabs her.”
I glance at him, then at Boris. “Options?”
Boris types something, screen glowing blue against his face.
“If they touch her, it won’t be quiet. We’ll have proof. But she needs a shadow everywhere she goes.”
I nod once. That settles it.
The sliding door opens. Ray’s back, Emma bouncing in his arms, dry clothes swapped for another swimsuit that’s just as soaked now because she’s managed to dump a cup of water down her front.
She wriggles free, drops to the ground, and bee-lines back to us. Sticky fingers, wet hair, eyes like she’s cracked the case of the century.
“Are you planning a party?” she asks.
The four of us—killers, soldiers, weapons—go silent.
Ray doesn’t miss a beat. “Yes, hon.”
“Is it my birthday again?” Emma asks, tilting her head.
Ray looks down at his daughter with eyes that hold something I’ll never have. Pure, uncomplicated love. Protection without calculation. The kind of look that comes from knowing you’d burn the world down for someone who thinks you hung the moon.
“Not today, peanut. You already had your turn.”
She nods, serious as a general. Then spins and runs back to the pool, trailing watermelon seeds and half the patio’s water supply.
Ray watches her go, shakes his head. “Kids. They see everything. Understand nothing.” He takes another pull from his beer, then looks back at me. “But you four? You’re different.”
I raise an eyebrow. He doesn’t elaborate. Just leaves it there, like he’s testing how far I’ll bite.
From the side, Boris lifts his eyes from the laptop.
“Mary’s birthday is October fifteenth. She turns thirty.” His gaze flicks to me, deliberate.
I know. I’ve known for weeks; her file made sure of that. What I didn’t expect was still having her in my orbit when the date came around. She was supposed to be a problem I cleaned up, not a fixture I’m… planning around.
Lev doesn’t miss his chance. He leans back in his chair, grin sharp as a blade.
“You know, the one Anton keeps circling like a wolf. His girl.”
My jaw tightens. “She’s not—”
“Please,” Lev cuts in, lazy drawl dripping amusement. “You guard her like she’s Bratva royalty. Only thing missing is a tiara and matching bulletproof vest.”
Boris snorts into his beer. “Don’t give him ideas. He’ll actually order one custom.”
Ray’s eyes flick between us, calculating, interest sparking.
“So this Mary… she matters.”
“She’s pack,” Dima says quietly, not looking up from where he’s sketching something on a napkin—probably Emma’s requested story. “We don’t leave pack behind.”
Lev nods, suddenly serious. “Anyone touches her, they go through all of us.”
“She cooks,” Boris adds, like that explains everything. “Real food. From scratch.”
“And she’s totally the boss’s type,” Lev continues with a smirk.
Ray arches a brow. “Type, huh?” Then he turns, pins me with a look that digs deeper than it should. “So… marriage material.”
“Marriage. A joke. Men like me don’t marry. We don’t get forever,” I say, reaching for my glass.
Ray leans in.
“You don’t need forever. You need the one who’ll stand there while you burn the world down and still call it home.”