Chapter 28
Sergei
"Wolf's got a pretty wife waiting for him."
The voice comes from behind me in the rec yard. Saturday afternoon, fourteen hours into my stay at Rikers, and I already knew this was coming. Been waiting for it, actually. Matthew Ashford doesn't waste time.
I turn slowly. Three men fan out in a loose semicircle—blocking escape routes, cutting me off from the guards' line of sight. The one who spoke is built like a brick shithouse, neck tattoos crawling up to his jawline. Prison ink, crude and brutal.
"Pretty wife and a little girl," another one adds. He's thinner, with wiry muscle and dead eyes. "Shame what could happen to them. Accidents and all."
"You boys getting paid enough for this?" I ask conversationally. "Because touching my family? That's a death sentence, not a payday."
Brick Shithouse laughs. "Big talk for a man in lockup. What you gonna do, Wolf? You're neutered in here."
"Am I?"
I move before they process the question. Three steps forward, closing distance, my fist connecting with Wiry's throat. He goes down choking, hands clutching his crushed windpipe, and I'm already pivoting toward the third one—younger, maybe twenty-five, probably thought this would be easy money.
My elbow catches his temple. He drops like a stone.
Brick Shithouse charges, all rage and muscle, no technique. I sidestep, let his momentum carry him past, and drive my knee into his kidney. Once. Twice. He stumbles and I'm on him, arm locked around his throat, squeezing until his struggles weaken.
"Tell Matthew Ashford," I murmur in his ear, "that The Wolf doesn't get neutered. He just gets hungry."
I hold until he passes out, then release him. He crumples beside his unconscious partners, and I straighten my jumpsuit like nothing happened.
The whole thing took forty-five seconds.
Guards finally notice, rushing over with batons raised. I raise my hands, compliant, and let them cuff me.
"Solitary," the lead guard barks. "Two weeks."
Fine by me. Solitary means no more of Matthew's hired muscle trying their luck. Means time to think, to plan, to figure out how to protect my family from inside these walls.
Except I don't get two weeks.
Monday morning, a guard appears at my cell. "Orlov. You made bail. Get dressed."
I stare at him. "What?"
"Bail posted an hour ago. Judge signed off. You're free to go." He unlocks the door, tossing me a bag with my clothes—the charcoal suit I wore to the custody hearing. "Move it. Processing takes time."
My brain stutters. Bail was set at $2 million. Even with my assets, liquidating that fast—
Isabelle.
She did this. Somehow. Pulled strings or threw money or called in favors, and now I'm walking out after seventy-two hours, instead of rotting here for months waiting for trial.
Processing takes ninety minutes. Forms, releases, warnings about bail conditions and travel restrictions. I sign everything without reading, focused on one thing—getting to my daughter.
Getting to my wife.
The morning sun hits like a slap when I walk through those doors. I squint against the brightness, scanning the parking lot for Marco's town car or one of Andrei's vehicles.
Instead, I see her.
Isabelle leans against my SUV, all black leather and deadly elegance. She's wearing pants that hug every curve, heels that add three inches, and a jacket that screams expensive and dangerous. Her black hair falls loose around her shoulders, catching sunlight, and in her hands—
Her dad's lighter.
She flips it open, closed, open, closed. That familiar rhythm I've watched a hundred times, but now it looks different. Not grief. Not remembrance.
Anticipation.
Our eyes meet across fifty feet of asphalt. Her blue gaze pins me in place, reading every injury, every bruise, cataloguing damage like she's planning retaliation.
Then she pockets the lighter and straightens. "You look like hell."
"Feel like it, too." I close the distance between us, and everything in me wants to pull her against my chest, bury my face in her hair, confirm she's real and safe. Instead, I stop a foot away. "Mila?"
"Safe. Hamptons. Andrei's watching her." Her eyes track the bruising on my jaw, the split knuckles. "You were jumped."
"Three of Matthew's men. Saturday afternoon." I flex my fingers, feeling the ache. "They're in worse shape."
"Good." She opens the passenger door. "Get in. We're going home."
I climb into the SUV, and Isabelle slides behind the wheel. She handles the vehicle like she's been driving it for years instead of days.
"Wesley sent intel," she says, weaving through traffic. "Matthew's been busy. He paid off Elena's car mechanic to plant the bomb."
My hands curl into fists. "Name?"
"Dead. Found in his apartment yesterday. Apparent suicide—gun in his mouth, note confessing to the job." She glances at me. "Except Wesley says the handwriting's wrong. And the gunshot residue pattern doesn't match self-infliction."
"Matthew's cleaning house."
"Everyone who could testify against him is dying. He's systematic. Efficient. And he thinks we're too broken to fight back."
"Are we?"
"Two of his men attacked the safe house Friday night. I killed them both. Does that sound broken to you?"
Everything in me goes still. "What?"
"Mila's fine. I got her to the closet first. Handled the threat. Andrei disposed of the bodies." Her voice doesn't waver, doesn't shake. "They came for us thinking I'd be easy prey. They were wrong."
She killed them.
My fake wife killed two men to protect my daughter. Didn't hesitate. Didn't break.
Became exactly what I taught her to be.
Dangerous.
"You okay?"
"Define okay." She takes the bridge toward Long Island, Manhattan shrinking behind us.
"I shot two people. Watched them bleed out on hardwood floors while your daughter hid in a closet.
Then I called a Bratva fixer to make them disappear.
" She glances at me, blue eyes fierce. "Am I okay?
No. But I'm alive. Mila's alive. That's what matters. "
"Did she see—"
"She heard. Came downstairs after. Saw the aftermath." Izzy's hands tighten on the wheel. "Asked if I killed them. I said yes. She said you'd be proud."
Christ.
Mila is processing murder like it's acceptable. Normal. Expected.
"I am proud," I tell Izzy. "Of you. What you did. That you're both alive."
Her breath catches. "Sergei—"
"You saved her. Fought for her. Became the monster necessary to keep her breathing." I reach across the console, my hand finding her thigh. The leather is smooth and warm under my palm. "That's everything."
She doesn't pull away. Just drives, my hand heavy on her leg, and something shifts between us. Settles. Like we've finally stopped pretending this is temporary.
The Hamptons house appears after two hours—modern glass and steel perched on dunes, endless ocean stretching beyond. Andrei's Mercedes is gone but two other vehicles remain. Guards, probably. Watching the perimeter.
Izzy kills the engine. "She's been asking for you. Every hour. When's Papa coming home?"
"And you told her?"
"That I'd bring you back. Whatever it took." She turns to face me. "I meant it. Matthew can't have you. The cops can't have you. No one gets to take you from us."
"Isabelle—"
"Don't." She shakes her head. "Don't say whatever you're about to say. Not yet. Not until this is over and we're safe, and I can think past keeping us all alive."
Fair enough.
We climb out and the front door bursts open. Mila barrels down the steps, dark hair flying, and launches herself at me. I catch her, lifting her against my chest, and she wraps around me like she's drowning, and I'm air.
"Papa." Her voice breaks. "You came back."
"Always, ptichka." I press my face to her hair. "Always."
She pulls back, studying my face. Her small fingers trace the bruises on my jaw, the split lip.
"Did they hurt you?"
"They tried. But I'm harder to hurt than I look."
"Izzy killed bad men," Mila announces. "She protected me. Like you do."
"I heard." I set her down, one hand still holding hers. "She's good at protecting people we love."
Mila nods solemnly. "That's why you married her. Because she's like us."
Like us. A Wolf pack of three. Predators protecting each other.
We're not faking anymore.
We're family.
Inside, the house is immaculate. No blood. No bodies. No evidence, except Izzy's controlled breathing and the way her hand stays near the concealed carry at her hip.
Always ready. Always watching.
Just like me.
Mila drags me to the kitchen, chattering about puzzles and the ocean and missing her stuffed animals from home. Normal eight-year-old concerns layered over trauma she's processing in real time.
Izzy makes coffee—strong and black, the way I take it—and slides the mug across the counter. Our fingers brush and electricity sparks. Her pupils dilate, color rising in her cheeks, and I watch her throat work as she swallows.
"Mila, sweetheart, why don't you go upstairs and grab your book?" Izzy's voice is steady despite the heat in her eyes. "Your papa can read with you."
"Okay!" Mila bounds up the stairs, energy inexhaustible.
The second she's gone, Izzy's in my space. Her hands frame my face, thumb tracing my split lip with unexpected gentleness. "You scared me. Being arrested. Locked up."
"I scared you?" My hands find her waist, pulling her between my legs where I'm leaning against the counter. "You killed two men, and I wasn't there."
"I wasn't alone. I had your training. Your weapons. Your—" She stops, biting her lip.
"My what?"
"Your daughter. She needed me to be strong, so I was." Her forehead drops to mine. "I'm so tired of being strong, Sergei."
"Then don't be. Not right now." I slide my hands up her back. "Let me carry it for a while."
"You just got out of jail for murder. You don't get to carry anything."
"Watch me."
I pull her fully against me, and she melts, arms wrapping around my ribs, face buried in my chest. She doesn't cry. Doesn't break. Just holds on like I'm the only solid thing in her world.
Maybe I am.
"Matthew's next move," I murmur into her hair. "What's Wesley's read?"
"He's cornered. Desperate. Everyone who could testify is dead or compromised. He has nothing left, except going after us directly." She pulls back enough to meet my eyes. "Wesley thinks he'll make a play this week. Something big. Public. Designed to eliminate us and walk away clean."
"And the bugs we found before Elena died? Matthew still thinks we don't know he was listening?"
"Andrei confirmed. We left them active when we relocated here—Matthew's been hearing empty rooms for days. He's blind now. Deaf. Whatever he's planning, he's doing it without insider intel."
"Good." My hand slides into her hair, fist closing around the dark strands. "Let him try. I'm done running. Done hiding. He comes for my family again, I'm putting him down permanently."
"Not without me." Her fingers dig into my shoulders. "He killed my father. Tried to kill me four times. Poisoned Mila. Murdered your ex-wife and tried to frame you. This isn't just your fight."
"No. It's ours." I lean down, lips hovering near hers. "We end him."
"We end him," she echoes.
The air between us crackles, charged with more than planning. With need. Want. The kind of attraction that's been building since she walked into my office proposing marriage.
I should pull away. Mila's upstairs. We're in a safe house surrounded by guards. This isn't the time.
But her lips part, and I'm lost.
The kiss is desperate. Hungry. Three days apart feels like three years, and I pour everything into it—fear and relief and possession and something that might be love, if I'm brave enough to name it.
She kisses back with equal ferocity, her nails digging into my scalp, her body arching against mine. I lift her onto the counter, and she wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me closer, and—
"Papa! I found it!"
We spring apart faster than a bullet. Izzy slides off the counter, smoothing her hair, face flushed. I adjust my jeans and try to remember how to breathe normally.
Mila appears with her book, oblivious. "Can we read by the ocean? Please?"
"Yeah, ptichka." My voice is rough. "Whatever you want."
She runs to grab a blanket, and Izzy catches my wrist. "Tonight," she whispers. "When she's asleep. We finish this."
"The conversation or—"
"Both." Her smile is wicked. "We finish both."
The afternoon bleeds into evening. I read to Mila until she falls asleep against my chest, book forgotten, waves crashing beyond the windows. Izzy sits across from us, watching with an expression I can't quite read.
Soft. Tender. Dangerous.
When I carry Mila upstairs and tuck her in, she grabs my hand. "Don't leave."
"Never, ptichka. I'm staying right here." I settle into the chair beside her bed. "Sleep. I'll watch."
She's out in minutes, breathing evening out. I watch her—this small person I created, who's survived divorce and danger and death. Who's learning that the world requires teeth but still believes in bedtime stories.
I'll burn the world down to keep her safe.
Footsteps behind me. Izzy appears in the doorway, two glasses of whiskey in hand. She passes me one and leans against the doorframe.
"She's resilient," Izzy says quietly. "Stronger than any kid should have to be."
"She's a survivor. Like her father." I take a long drink, letting the burn ground me. "Like you."
"Strength or insanity." She's smiling slightly. "Normal people don't kill attackers and dispose of bodies on a Friday night."
"We stopped being normal the day you proposed marriage in my office."
"Best decision I ever made."
"Yeah?" My hand finds her jaw, thumb tracing her lower lip.
She leans into my touch. "You made me dangerous."
"My Wolf," I murmur.
"Your Wolf," she agrees.
We leave Mila sleeping and head to the master bedroom. The door closes and Izzy's on me immediately—hands in my hair, mouth hot against mine, body pressing me back against the wall.
"Three days," she gasps between kisses. "Three days thinking you were locked up. That Matthew might get to you. That I'd never—"
I flip us, pinning her to the wall with my body. "Never what?"
"Never get to tell you—" She stops, eyes searching mine.
"Tell me what, kotyonok?"
But she shakes her head, pulling me down for another kiss instead of answering. And I let her, because some truths are too big to speak yet.
Some truths require time and safety and the kind of peace we don't have while Matthew Ashford breathes.
So I kiss my wife and try not to think about how real this feels.
How permanent.
How much it's going to destroy me if I lose her.