Chapter 7
Izzy
"Those weren't my enemies. They were yours."
The words land like a slap. I'm still white-knuckling the door handle, rain hammering the SUV roof, my pulse doing its best impression of a cardiac event. Sergei's eyes don't leave the road—scanning every car, every shadow, like he's cataloguing which ones are here to kill us.
"Mine?" The word comes out strangled. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
"Those men weren't Bratva." Another turn. Smooth. Controlled. Like we're not fleeing armed pursuers. "Wrong suits, wrong approach. They wanted you scared, not bleeding out in Midtown. If they wanted you dead, you wouldn't have made it to the car."
His casual certainty makes my skin crawl. "How do you know?"
"Because I've done both." Flat. Matter-of-fact. Like he's explaining why the sky's blue, instead of his extensive murder résumé. "This was theater. A message."
"From whom? Uncle Matthew? Cal fucking Reznick?"
"Could be. Could be both." He glances at me, and there's something dark in his expression. Knowledge. "You showed up at my office, married The Wolf, told Manhattan's elite to go to hell. People who wanted you compliant just got a very clear answer. They're not happy about it."
I'm gripping Dad's lighter so hard, the edges bite crescents into my palm. "So marrying you painted a target on my back."
"You already had a target on your back, kotyonok. I just gave you someone who shoots back." His hand closes over mine, prying the lighter free before I draw blood. "Better armed than compliant."
The stalker. Two years ago. I'd been in the shower—oblivious, vulnerable—when the man broke in. Didn't hear the lock being picked. Didn't know I was thirty seconds from being another Upper East Side headline, until Sergei appeared like something out of a nightmare.
Efficient. Brutal. Over before I could scream.
He'd saved me then, without hesitation. Just doing his job.
Except now it's not a job.
"I remember that night," I say quietly. "The stalker. The way you—you didn't even blink."
"Violence doesn't scare me." Both hands are back on the wheel. "It should scare you."
"It does." I look at his profile—all hard angles and barely controlled danger—and mine for the next however long this arrangement lasts. "You don't, though."
His jaw tightens. "I should."
"Too late."
Brooklyn slides past the windows. Glass towers giving way to brownstones, tree-lined streets that make it feel like Manhattan is a distant planet. He pulls up to a corner unit—warm brick, black shutters, window boxes that look almost aggressively normal.
I stare.
This is where The Wolf lives?
"Not what you expected?" There's amusement in his voice.
"I was thinking more... industrial. Maybe a few security cameras. Possibly a moat."
"Cameras are there. You just can’t see them." He nods toward the window boxes. "Motion sensors in the planters. Reinforced steel behind that pretty front door. Panic room in the basement. The whole place is wired to alert me if a mouse farts in the wrong direction."
He kills the engine.
"From the outside, it's a Brooklyn brownstone. Inside, it's a fortress. Mila needs to feel like she lives somewhere normal. But normal doesn't mean unprotected."
The things he's done for her. The disguise he maintains so his daughter can pretend her father isn't dangerous.
I'm in so much trouble.
"She's at her mother's until Sunday," he adds, rain starting to let up outside. "Every other weekend. That's all the custody agreement allows."
"That's—" I clear my throat. "That's not enough."
"No. It's not." Something hard crosses his face. "But it's what I've got until the hearing. Unless Elena uses this marriage as ammunition and takes even that away."
My hand's on the door handle when his closes over my wrist. Not hard. Just... there. Stopping me.
"Before we go in. We need to talk about Mila."
"I know the rules. We're married. I won't tell her it's—"
"This isn't about rules." He leans closer.
The scent of him—cedar and danger and rain—fills the car.
"Mila's eight. She's already lived through her parents' divorce, her mother's bitterness, her father's past. When she gets back Sunday, she's going to meet you.
And she's going to form opinions. Attachments. Kids do that."
The way he says it. Fierce. Protective.
Not about me.
About her.
"I won't hurt her, Sergei."
"Not intentionally. But this arrangement—" He pauses, choosing words carefully. "It has an expiration date. We both know that. Once your inheritance is secured, once my custody case is settled, we go our separate ways. That's the deal."
"That's the deal," I echo, though something twists in my chest.
"So while you're here, while we're playing house for the courts and your uncle and everyone else—I need you to be careful with her. Don't make promises you can't keep. Don't let her call you Mom. Don't—" His voice roughens. "Don't make her love you if you're planning to leave."
Oh.
He's not threatening me.
He's warning me.
Because he knows how easy it would be to get attached. And he knows exactly how much it would hurt when this ends.
"I'll be careful," I say quietly. "I promise."
Something in his expression eases. Just slightly.
"Good." He releases my wrist. "Then let's go inside. Her things are everywhere—photos, artwork, that god-awful stuffed unicorn she's had since she was three. This is her space. We're just... living in it."
We run through the last of the rain.
Inside, I freeze.
Because this isn't what I expected at all.
Hardwood floors covered in bright rugs. Crayon drawings taped to the fridge—stick figures labeled "Papa" and "me" and one that might be a dragon. School photos in mismatched frames. A puzzle half-finished on the coffee table. Books scattered like someone actually reads them.
And underneath the warmth—I see it now. The reinforced frames on the windows. The too-solid front door with its hidden deadbolts. The small camera dome in the corner of the ceiling, painted to match the plaster.
Steel bones wrapped in suburban prettiness.
Just like the man who built it.
"It's nice," I manage. Understatement of the century.
"She needs soft edges." His slate eyes pin me in place. "A place that doesn't remind her who I used to be. What I'm capable of."
Nothing like my penthouse—all glass and marble and designer emptiness. This is a home. The kind where people exist instead of just staying.
"Quick tour," he says, shaking rain from his hair. Water droplets catch in the silver. Track down his neck. Disappear under his collar in a way that makes my brain temporarily malfunction.
Focus, Isabelle.
"Kitchen's through there. Living room, you're standing in it. Bathroom's down the hall. Upstairs—Mila's room, my office, and the bedroom."
"Where's my room?"
He stops. Turns. Rain still glistening on his shoulders.
The space between us goes taut.
"You're my wife." Slow. Deliberate. "My bed."
My legs go weak.
"What?"
"Courts check living arrangements. Social workers do home visits.
Elena's lawyers will look for any excuse to claim this marriage is a sham.
" His arms cross. Shoulders strain against wet fabric.
"If you're in a guest room, if there's any sign we're not actually together, our entire story falls apart. "
Sharing a bed. With Sergei. Every night.
The man I fucked against my windows less than a week ago. The man whose hands I can still feel, whose mouth I can still taste, whose—
"Mila's not here until Sunday," I hear myself say. "No one's checking tonight."
"No. But you need to be comfortable with this before she gets back.
Before she sees us together and notices something's off.
" He moves closer. Each step calculated.
Predatory. "Kids see everything, Isabelle.
If you flinch when I touch you, if we're awkward around each other, she'll know something's wrong. And she'll tell her mother."
He's right. I hate that he's right.
"This is business," I say, though my voice comes out breathless.
"Is it?" He’s close enough now that I have to tilt my head back. Close enough that I can see the darker flecks in those grey eyes. "Because business arrangements don't usually end with both parties naked thirty-eight floors above Manhattan."
The memory hits. His mouth on mine. His hands—
Stop.
"That was a mistake."
"Was it?" His thumb traces my jaw. Gentle. Which makes it somehow more dangerous than if he'd just grabbed me. "You came apart so prettily, Isabelle. Screamed my name loud enough that the neighbors probably complained. Doesn't seem like a mistake. Seems like inevitability."
My hands are shaking.
He's right. That night was the most honest thing I've felt since Dad died. No performing. No pretending. Just need and grief and his body making me forget everything except how to breathe.
"One bed," I whisper.
"One bed." His mouth curves. Dangerous. Promising. "Don't worry. I'll behave."
The lie is so obvious, we both ignore it.
"Get changed." He steps back. Creates space I don't want. "You can wear my clothes until Marco brings yours tomorrow. Bedroom's upstairs. First door on the right."
He disappears toward the kitchen.
I stand in his living room—our living room now, apparently—dripping on rugs that have definitely seen better days, surrounded by evidence of the life he's built for his daughter.
The life I just crashed into with my inheritance clause and my murder investigation and my complete inability to make a single good decision.
My legs barely make it upstairs.
First door on the right opens to reveal exactly what I should've expected: minimalist, clean, a king bed that dominates the space. Charcoal sheets. One nightstand with a lamp, his gun, and a photo of Mila.
No decorations. No color. Just function.
The Wolf's den.
And now mine.
I peel off the wet dress. Leave it in a heap. Raid his dresser for a t-shirt—Columbia University, soft from washing, smells like him—and pull it on. Hangs to mid-thigh.
My reflection in the mirror looks like I raided my boyfriend's closet after staying over.
Except Sergei's not my boyfriend.
He's my husband.
Fake husband. Business arrangement. Temporary solution.
Keep telling yourself that, Isabelle.
Downstairs, I find him in the kitchen. He's changed too—dry jeans, black t-shirt—and he's doing something domestic with a kettle that makes my brain short-circuit.
The Wolf makes tea?
"You drink tea?" It comes out more accusing than intended.
"Mila likes chamomile before bed." He pulls down two mugs. Plain white. Nothing fancy. "Helps her sleep. Figured you might need it, too."
The thoughtfulness lands weird. Soft. At odds with the man who just explained murder methodology in the car.
He slides a mug across the counter. Our fingers brush, and I'm suddenly aware I'm standing in his kitchen, wearing nothing but his t-shirt and the underwear I didn't bother taking off, drinking tea The Wolf of Brooklyn makes for his daughter, pretending this is normal.
Pretending I'm not already in way over my head.
"Anything else I should know?" I grip the mug, needing something to do with my hands. "Do you sleep with a weapon? Talk in your sleep? Have an ex-girlfriend who might show up?"
"Glock under my pillow. Sometimes I have nightmares. And the only ex who matters is currently trying to take my daughter." His eyes hold mine. "Your turn. What am I getting into?"
I consider lying.
Tell him I'm easy. Low-maintenance. No baggage.
But he watched me shatter over my father's death. Saw me drunk and desperate and begging him to make me forget. He knows exactly what he's getting.
"I steal covers. I'm not nice before coffee. And sometimes I wake up crying because I dreamed about my father drowning, and I can't save him." The truth tastes like ash. "Still want to share a bed?"
"More than I should." He takes my mug. Sets it aside. Closes the distance until we're toe to toe. "We're going to figure this out, Isabelle. You, me, this insane arrangement. One day at a time."
"You can't know that."
"I can." His hands frame my face. "Because I've survived worse. And I've never had this much incentive to stay alive."
Then he kisses me.
Soft at first. Testing. Like he's asking permission.
I give it.
My hands fist in his shirt. Pull him closer. And this kiss—it's different from the window. Different from desperation. This is slow. Deliberate. The kiss of a man who has time and plans to use it.
When we pull apart, we're both breathing hard.
"That wasn't in the agreement," I whisper.
"Neither was fucking you against your penthouse windows." His thumb traces my lower lip. "We're not great at sticking to agreements."
"Sergei—"
"I know." He steps back, again creating space I don't want. "This is complicated. You're grieving. I'm in a custody battle. We're pretending to be married while also being actually married. It's a mess."
"A spectacular mess."
"The best kind." His mouth curves. Almost a smile. "Come on. I'll show you the bedroom. For sleeping. Actual sleeping."
"You sure about that?"
"No." He takes my hand—the first time he's done it without urgency or danger driving the touch. "But we've got until Sunday to figure out what the hell we're doing. Might as well start with rest."
He leads me upstairs.
To our bedroom.
To the bed we'll share while pretending this is simple.
It's not simple.
Nothing about this is simple.
He hands me a pair of his sweatpants because the t-shirt's too short. Shows me the bathroom. Points out which side of the closet is empty.
I set Dad's lighter on the nightstand next to his Glock. Gold and scorched beside black and steel. Two dangerous things that somehow fit.
I don't know what this is—attraction, convenience, two broken people reaching for warmth in the dark, or something else entirely. I don't know whether the kiss meant something or it was just adrenaline and proximity and need.
I don't know anything except that when he moves around this space, making room for me like I might actually belong here—
I want to find out.
Whatever this is.
Whatever it becomes.