Chapter 27
Izzy
“Your father’s been arrested.”
The words hit Mila like a physical blow. We’re in Sergei’s SUV, three blocks from her school, and I watch her face crumple in the rearview mirror. Those hazel-green eyes—too old, too knowing—fill with tears she’s trying not to shed.
“Why? What did he do?”
“Nothing.” I pull over, hazards flashing, because I can’t have this conversation while driving.
I turn in my seat to face her. “Your father didn’t do anything wrong, sweetheart.
But your mother—” The words stick in my throat.
How do you tell a child her mother’s dead?
That someone killed her with a bomb? “There was an accident. A bad one. And the police think your father was involved.”
“Was he?” Direct. No bullshit. She’s Sergei’s daughter through and through.
“No.” I reach back, taking her small hand in mine. “But we need to leave the city for a while until we figure this out, until your papa comes home.”
“Is Mama okay?”
The question destroys me. I want to lie, to give her one more day of innocence, but Sergei’s words echo in my head. She deserves truth.
“No, ptichka. She’s not. Your mama died in the accident. I’m so sorry.”
The tears come then. Silent, devastating, streaming down her face while she stares at me like I’ve just told her the sun won’t rise tomorrow.
I unbuckle myself, climb into the back seat and pull her against my chest. She’s rigid at first, holding everything in, then she breaks—small body shaking with sobs that wrack through both of us.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper against her hair. “I promise, I’ve got you.”
We sit like that for ten minutes while traffic flows around us, while the world continues spinning despite the fact that hers just shattered. When her sobs finally slow, she pulls back, wiping her face with her sleeve.
“Where are we going?”
“Hamptons. A safe house.” I smooth her hair back, tucking loose strands behind her ear. “One of your father’s friends is meeting us there. We’ll be protected.”
“From who?”
From the man who killed your mother and wants me dead.
“From bad people,” I say instead. “People who want to hurt our family. But they won’t. I won’t let them.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.” The words feel like an oath. A vow. “Nothing’s getting through me to you. Nothing.”
She nods once, decisive, and buckles herself back in.
“Okay. Let’s go.”
The drive takes two hours through traffic that makes my teeth grind. Every black sedan could be Matthew’s men. Every motorcyclist could be carrying a gun. I keep one hand on the wheel, the other on the Glock Sergei made me carry, and try not to let Mila see how terrified I am.
My phone buzzes constantly. Wesley with updates. Our lawyer with bail information. News alerts about Elena’s death, about Sergei’s arrest, about the “dangerous Bratva enforcer” in custody.
I silence it all.
The safe house appears at the end of a private road—modern glass and steel tucked into dunes, ocean stretching endlessly beyond.
Andrei’s already there, leaning against a black Mercedes, cigarette dangling from his lips.
He’s older than Sergei, maybe fifty, with salt-and-pepper hair and the kind of face that’s seen things civilized people can’t imagine.
“Isabelle.” He grinds out the cigarette under his boot. “And this must be Mila.”
Mila peers at him from behind my legs, suspicious and scared. I don’t blame her.
“The house is secure,” Andrei continues in accented English. “Reinforced doors, panic room, weapons cache in the master bedroom. I have two men patrolling the perimeter. No one gets close without us knowing.”
“Thank you.” I guide Mila toward the front door, exhaustion suddenly crashing through me. “How long until we can get Sergei out?”
“Lawyer’s working on bail. Maybe tomorrow, maybe longer. They’re calling it first-degree murder.” His expression darkens. “Elena had her own list of enemies. But Sergei’s the easy arrest.”
“He didn’t do it.”
“I know. You know. Police don’t care.” Andrei hands me a key card. “Everything you need is inside. Food, clothes for the girl, security system codes. You have problem, you call me. I come running.”
“Why are you helping us?”
He smiles, and it’s not kind. “Sergei saved my nephew’s life six years ago. Took three bullets doing it. I owe him blood debt. This?” He gestures at the house. “This is nothing.”
Blood debt. The currency of Sergei’s world. Not money or favors, but survival and sacrifice.
“Then I owe you, too,” I tell him.
“No. You owe Sergei. And you pay him back by keeping his daughter alive.”
The house is exactly what Andrei promised—fortified luxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the ocean, but the glass is bulletproof, thick enough to stop a rifle round. The doors are steel-reinforced. Security cameras cover every angle.
In the master bedroom, I find the weapons cache. Two rifles, four handguns, ammunition, body armor, knives. Enough to fight a small war.
Mila’s exhausted, grief and shock draining her completely. I get her settled in one of the guest rooms—pale blue walls, soft bed, view of the ocean. She curls up under the covers, clutching the stuffed wolf Sergei won her at a carnival.
“Will Papa come home?” Her voice is muffled by the pillow.
“Yes.” I sit on the edge of the bed, my hand finding hers under the blankets. “I’m going to make sure of it. Whatever it takes.”
“What if the bad people come here?”
“Then I’ll handle them.” I lean down, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Sleep, sweetheart. You’re safe.”
She’s out in minutes, body finally surrendering to exhaustion. I watch her for a while—this small person who’s lost her mother, whose father’s in jail, who’s trusting me to keep her alive.
I won’t fail her.
I stare at the ocean. Waves crash against the shore in rhythmic violence, and I think about Elena. Cold, manipulative Elena, who tried to take Mila from Sergei. Who used her daughter as a weapon in her custody war.
She didn’t deserve to die like that.
No one does.
My phone rings. Sergei’s lawyer, Diane Beauchamp.
“He’s refusing bail,” she says without preamble. “Idiot thinks it’s safer for everyone if he stays locked up. Says Matthew can’t get to him in jail.”
“He’s wrong. Matthew has connections everywhere. Sergei’s more vulnerable inside than out.” My hand finds Dad’s lighter in my pocket, the metal warm and grounding. “What do we need to post bail?”
“Two million. Cash or bond.”
“I’ll wire it within the hour. Get him out, Diane. Tonight, if possible.”
“The judge won’t see us until Monday morning—”
“Try it. Whatever it takes. He needs to be with his daughter.”
Silence stretches. Then, softer: “How is Mila?”
“Destroyed. Holding it together because she’s eight and thinks she has to be strong. But destroyed.”
“I’ll do everything I can. Sergei’s lucky to have you.”
The line goes dead before I can respond. Lucky. Like I’m doing this out of charity, instead of something that feels dangerously close to need.
Darkness falls fast over the ocean. I check the security system three times, confirm Andrei’s men are in position, and make myself eat something from the stocked fridge. It tastes like cardboard, but I force it down anyway.
Mila’s still sleeping when I check on her. Curled in a ball, face streaked with dried tears, the stuffed wolf clutched against her chest.
I should sleep. Should rest while I can. But my body’s wired, adrenaline keeping me sharp and jumpy.
Instead, I open the weapons cache. Select a Glock—smaller than Sergei’s usual preference but easier for my hands. Load it. Check the safety. Set it on the nightstand beside the bed, where I can reach it instantly.
Then I sit by the window, staring at waves illuminated by moonlight, and wait.
The attack comes at 2:32 a.m.
I’m half-asleep when the security alarm shrieks. Every light in the house floods on, automated response, and I’m moving before conscious thought kicks in. Gun in hand, heart hammering, bare feet silent on hardwood.
The control panel shows two breach points—side door and kitchen window. Professionals. Coordinated.
Mila.
I’m on the other side of the hallway in seconds, bursting into her room. She’s awake, terrified, clutching the wolf.
“Closet. Now. Stay quiet no matter what you hear.” I grab her hand, pulling her to the walk-in closet, shoving her behind hanging clothes. “Don’t come out until I say it’s safe.”
“Izzy—”
“Do it.” I kiss her forehead fast and hard. “Trust me, ptichka.”
Her eyes are huge, but she nods. I close the closet door, lock it from outside and head downstairs.
Glass shatters in the kitchen. I flatten against the wall, breathing controlled, Glock raised. Two sets of footsteps. Heavy boots. Professional.
The first one rounds the corner, and I fire.
The shot catches him in the shoulder—not where I aimed, center mass, but close enough. He goes down hard, cursing, and his partner returns fire. Bullets punch through drywall inches from my head, and I dive behind the couch.
Breathe. Stay calm. You’ve trained for this.
I peek around the corner. The second intruder’s advancing, gun raised, searching for me. Dark mask, tactical gear, the kind of setup that costs money.
Matthew’s money.
I wait until he’s close. Until I can see his eyes through the mask slits. Then I put three rounds into him—chest, chest, head. Exactly like Sergei taught me.
He drops.
The one I wounded is crawling toward the exit, leaving blood smears on the hardwood. I’m on him before he reaches the door, my foot on his back, gun pressed to his skull.
“Who sent you?”
He laughs, wet and pained. “Go to hell.”
I press harder. “Matthew Ashford sent you. Tell me where he is.”
“You’re dead. Both of you. The Wolf and his bitch—”
I pull the trigger.
The sound echoes in the sudden silence. I stand there, breathing hard, staring at two corpses bleeding out on my safe house floor.
I killed them.
No hesitation. No mercy. Just eliminated the threat and moved on.
What am I becoming?
“Izzy?”
Mila’s voice, small and terrified from upstairs. I’m moving immediately, taking the stairs two at a time, unlocking the closet.
She launches herself at me, wrapping around my waist, face buried in my stomach. “I heard shooting—”
“It’s over. We’re safe.” I hold her tight, one hand in her hair, the other still gripping the gun. “Bad men came. I stopped them.”
“Did you—” She pulls back, looking at me. “Did you kill them?”
Truth. She deserves truth.
“Yes.”
She processes this, those old eyes studying my face. Looking for something—fear, regret, hesitation. Finding none of it.
“Good,” she whispers. “Papa would be proud.”
The words crack something in my chest. This eight-year-old child, processing violence and death, deciding it’s acceptable because I did it to protect her.
What have we done to her?
But I know the answer. We’ve shown her the truth—that the world isn’t safe, that survival requires teeth, that sometimes the only way to protect what you love is to destroy what threatens it.
Just like her father taught me.
“Let’s call Andrei,” I tell her. “He’ll clean this up.”
That, and his men who are undoubtedly lying outside the estate. Dead and unmoving.
Andrei arrives within fifteen minutes, bringing his crew. They work with the efficiency of people who’ve disposed of bodies before—plastic sheeting, bleach, unmarked van. By dawn, there’s no evidence anyone died here, except bloodstains being scrubbed from hardwood.
“You did well,” Andrei tells me, lighting another cigarette. “Sergei chose right.”
“He didn’t choose me. This is business.”
“Business.” He smiles like I’ve told a joke. “Yes. Very businesslike, the way you protect his daughter. The way you kill for her without hesitating. Very professional.”
“Shut up.”
“You love him. You love her. This stops being business long time ago.” He exhales smoke toward the ocean. “Question is—when do you stop lying to yourself?”
I don’t answer. Can’t answer. Because he’s right, and I’m not ready to admit it.
“Diane called,” I say instead. “Sergei will post bail on Monday morning. I’ll be bringing him here.”
“Good. He’ll want to see his daughter. Thank the woman who kept her alive.” Andrei drops the cigarette, crushing it under his boot. “And maybe you both stop pretending this is fake.”
He leaves before I can respond.
The sun rises over the ocean, painting everything gold and pink. Beautiful and serene, like people didn’t just die in this house. Like my hands aren’t still shaking from pulling the trigger. Like everything’s normal.
But nothing’s normal anymore.
Somewhere in Manhattan, Sergei’s sitting in a cell, thinking we’re safe, thinking he’s protecting us by staying locked up.
He’s wrong.
We need him. Mila needs him.
I need him.
The thought should terrify me. This was supposed to be temporary—a business arrangement to save my inheritance and help his custody case. A fake marriage with clear expiration date.
Except it stopped being fake somewhere between teaching me to shoot and reading bedtime stories to his daughter. Between killing for each other and sleeping tangled together like we can’t bear separation.
Between becoming his Wolf and him becoming my—
What?
My husband?
My partner?
My everything?
“Izzy?”
Mila appears in the doorway, wearing one of my t-shirts like a dress, hair messy from sleep. She looks small and lost and so much like Sergei, it hurts.
“Come here, sweetheart.” I hold out my arms and she comes, curling against my side on the couch. We watch the sunrise together, her head on my shoulder, my arm around her small frame.
“When’s Papa coming home?”
“On Monday.” I press a kiss to her dark hair. “Nothing’s keeping him from us. Not cops, not judges, not anyone.”
She relaxes against me, trusting completely. And I make a silent vow to the ocean, to the sunrise, to whatever gods watch over killers and their families:
I’ll burn down the world before I let anything happen to this child.
Or her father.
Or whatever fragile, dangerous thing we’re building between the three of us.
Dad’s lighter sits on the coffee table where I left it. Gold and scorched and a testament to survival.
I flip it open. The flame catches, small and persistent against the growing daylight.
I’m coming for you, Matthew. For everything you’ve done. Every person you’ve killed. Every life you’ve destroyed.
The flame dances in the morning breeze coming through the open window.
Behind me, Andrei’s crew finishes cleaning. By the time Sergei gets here, the house will be spotless. No blood. No bodies. No evidence, except the resolve hardening in my chest like armor.
Mila falls back asleep against my shoulder. I hold her, one hand stroking her hair, the other resting on Dad’s lighter.
And I wait for whatever comes next.
The ocean crashes against the shore, relentless and patient.
Just like me.