Chapter 38 #2
The words are rough. Reverent. His gaze tracks from my heels up the dangerous slit in my dress, lingering on the curves the silk emphasizes before finally meeting my eyes.
“You look—” He stops, jaw working like he’s searching for words that don’t exist. “You’re going to get us both killed walking in there looking like that.”
“That’s the plan.” I close the distance between us, hyperaware of how the dress moves with each step. “Distract them with beauty, destroy them with teeth.”
His hand finds my waist, pulling me flush against him. The other traces the open back of my dress, fingers splaying possessive against bare skin. “There’s a slit up to your thigh.”
“I know. I picked it specifically.”
“You’re trying to kill me before we even face Matthew.”
“Motivation to keep you alive.” I slide my hands up his chest, feeling solid muscle beneath expensive fabric. “Can’t let some Chicago contractor take you out when I have plans for later.”
“Plans?” His voice drops lower, rougher, and heat burns through me.
“Very detailed plans.” My lips brush his. “Involving no clothes whatsoever.”
His grip tightens on my waist. “We need to leave in five minutes.”
“Then you better let me go.”
“Can’t.” His forehead drops to mine, breath warm against my lips. “You’re wearing that dress and expecting me to think about anything except getting you out of it.”
“Focus, Wolf.” But I’m not pulling away, can’t bring myself to break contact when he’s looking at me like I’m the only real thing in the world. “We survive tonight, then you can think about the dress. Or lack thereof.”
“Deal.” He presses one hard kiss to my mouth, then steps back before we do something stupid. “You armed?”
“Knife in the bodice. Lighter in the thigh pocket.” I smooth the silk, checking that nothing shows. “You?”
“Three guns, two knives, and enough backup plans to fill a manual.” His eyes sweep over me one more time. “You ready for this?”
Am I ready to walk into a roomful of people who want me dead? To face my uncle and watch him realize we’re not victims anymore? To stand beside this dangerous man and burn down everything my family built on lies?
“Yes.” The word comes out steady. Sure. “Let’s end them.”
He takes my hand, fingers threading through mine with practiced ease, and leads me toward the garage. Behind us, Mila calls out from the stairs.
“Papa! Izzy! Have fun!”
We both turn. She’s standing on the landing in her star pajamas, clutching the stuffed wolf Sergei won her at the carnival.
“We will, ptichka,” Sergei promises. “Milo will take care of you. He’s Andrei’s best friend. You listen to him, okay? And we’ll be home before you know it.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.” He glances at me. “Both of us promise.”
The weight of that promise settles between us. We’re walking into a trap, knowing it’s a trap. But we’re walking in together.
Sergei guides me into the SUV, his hand lingering on my thigh as I settle into the passenger seat. The engine rumbles to life and we pull out into the darkness, Brooklyn fading behind us as Manhattan rises ahead like a glittering threat.
“Whatever happens tonight,” Sergei says quietly, eyes on the road but his hand finding mine, “this was worth it.”
“What was worth it?”
“Us. You. This life we’ve built in such a short time.” His thumb traces circles on my palm. “A few months ago, I was fighting for custody and teaching you to shoot. Now I’m taking my wife to a gala where we’re planning to destroy her family.”
“Romantic.”
“I’m serious.” He glances at me, and the intensity in his eyes makes my breath catch. “Whatever happens tonight—if this goes wrong, if Matthew gets the drop on us—I need you to know that these past months? Best of my life. You made me believe dangerous men can have good things.”
My throat closes. “Sergei—”
“You don’t have to say anything. Just—know it. In case I don’t get another chance.”
The Plaza appears ahead, all gold and glass and old-world elegance. Valets swarm. Cameras flash. The beautiful people of Manhattan are gathering to spend obscene amounts of money on charity while pretending they care about anything, except their own reflections.
We’re about to give them a show they’ll never forget.
Sergei parks, then comes around to open my door. His hand finds mine as I step out, steadying me on these ridiculous heels. The red dress catches every flash, and I hear the whispers already starting.
That’s Isabelle Davenport. The heiress. And her husband, the Russian.
I heard he used to be Bratva.
She married him weeks after her father died. Suspicious, don’t you think?
Let them whisper. Let them speculate. By the time this night’s over, they’ll have much better gossip.
Sergei’s arm wraps around my waist, possessive and protective, and we walk toward the entrance. Golden light spills across marble steps. Music drifts through open doors. Inside, champagne flows and canapés circulate, and somewhere in that glittering crowd, Matthew Ashford waits.
My hand finds Dad’s lighter through the silk of my dress. The metal’s warm, familiar, grounding.
I’m coming for you, Uncle Matthew. For everything you took. Everyone you killed.
Tonight ends with fire.