Chapter 39
Izzy
“He’s here.”
Sergei’s voice cuts through the champagne chatter and string quartet, low enough that only I hear. His hand tightens on my waist, possessive and warning, as his grey eyes track something across the ballroom.
I follow his gaze. Matthew stands near the bar, silver hair perfect, ice-blue eyes scanning the crowd like a shark circling prey. Cal Reznick hovers beside him, and three men I don’t recognize fan out in strategic positions—walls, exits, blind spots.
The Chicago contractors.
“How many?” I keep my voice steady despite my pulse kicking into overdrive.
“Three visible. Assume more.” His thumb traces circles on my hip through red silk, the touch grounding me. “They’re positioned to box us in. Exits covered. Classic kill box setup.”
“How romantic. They planned a murder just for us.”
His laugh is dark. “That’s my girl. Stay close. When this goes sideways—”
“When, not if?”
“When.” His eyes meet mine, storm-grey and absolutely certain. “You shoot anyone who’s not me or Andrei or Wesley. No hesitation. No mercy.”
He hands me a gun, small enough to fit into my clutch.
“Mercy’s overrated anyway.” I slip my hand through the slit in my dress, fingers brushing the lighter’s warm metal. Dad’s presence. Dad’s fire. “Let’s give them a show.”
We move deeper into the ballroom, a sea of designer gowns and tuxedos parting around us like we’re royalty.
Or predators. The Lighthouse Foundation Gala is Manhattan’s premiere charity event—five hundred of the city’s wealthiest gathered to throw money at a good cause while congratulating themselves on their philanthropy.
Tonight they’re about to witness a murder. The ultimate show of public humiliation.
Matthew sees us approaching. His expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in those dead eyes. Recognition. Fear disguised as contempt. He’s no doubt remembering our last encounter when Sergei put him in his place.
“Isabelle.” His voice carries false warmth. “How lovely you could make it. And Mr. Orlov. Still playing bodyguard, I see.”
“Husband,” Sergei corrects, his arm iron around my waist. “I’m her husband. Remember? The marriage you tried so hard to annul?”
“A temporary arrangement, surely. Once the inheritance timeline passes—”
“The only thing temporary here is your freedom.” I step forward, forcing Matthew to either hold his ground or retreat. He retreats. “Enjoy the champagne, Uncle. It’s the last taste of luxury you’ll have for a while.”
His jaw tightens. “Careful, Isabelle. Threats in public places tend to backfire.”
“That’s not a threat. That’s a promise.” I smile, all teeth. “Detective Fraser received quite the package this afternoon. Financial records, audio recordings, witness testimony. Everything needed to connect you to my father’s murder. The DA’s probably drafting charges as we speak.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Am I?” I lean closer, dropping my voice to something intimate and lethal. “Ivan Olegov sends his regards. Oh wait—he can’t. He’s dead. Funny how all your hired killers keep ending up that way.”
Matthew’s composure cracks. His hand moves toward his jacket, and Sergei’s already intercepting, catching his wrist.
“I wouldn’t.” Sergei’s voice could freeze blood. “Not here. Not with five hundred witnesses and my wife wearing a dress that makes me willing to burn down the world to keep her safe.”
“Let go of me.” Matthew tries to wrench free, but Sergei’s grip is immovable. “You’re making a scene.”
“Good. I like scenes.” Sergei releases him with a shove that sends Matthew stumbling back into Cal. “Now fuck off before I forget we’re in polite company.”
They retreat, but the Chicago contractors shift positions. Closing in. The one by the east exit—buzz cut, dead eyes—catches Matthew’s signal. His hand slides inside his jacket.
Everything happens at once.
The contractor draws. Sergei moves faster, shoving me behind him as the first shot cracks through crystal and champagne. The string quartet cuts off mid-note. Women scream. Men dive under tables. Glass shatters as bullets punch through the massive windows overlooking Central Park.
I’m already moving, hand finding the knife in my bodice as I drop into a crouch. The red dress rides up my thigh. I grab the gun Sergei gave me, safety off, tracking targets through the chaos.
Buzz Cut’s advancing on us, gun raised. Sergei intercepts, moving with that lethal grace that makes him The Wolf. One strike disarms. Another drops Buzz Cut to his knees. The third—a precise blow to the temple—sends him crumpling.
The second contractor appears from behind a marble column, weapon tracking Sergei’s back. I don’t think. Don’t hesitate.
I fire.
The shot takes him in the shoulder. Not where I aimed—center mass—but close enough. He spins, gun swinging toward me, and Sergei’s already there. A knife appears in his hand like magic, burying itself in the contractor’s throat. Blood sprays across expensive tile.
“Behind you!” I scream.
The third contractor lunges from the crowd, blade flashing. Sergei pivots, catching the knife arm, twisting until bone breaks. The contractor’s scream cuts off when Sergei’s elbow connects with his face. Once. Twice. The man drops like a puppet with cut strings.
Three contractors down in under a minute.
But Matthew’s running. Shoving through panicked guests, heading for the service entrance. I’m moving before conscious thought kicks in, hiking my dress up to sprint in five-inch heels that weren’t designed for pursuit.
“Izzy!” Sergei’s behind me, clearing a path through the chaos. “Wait for backup—”
“No time!” I burst through the service door into a stark white corridor. Stainless steel, industrial lighting, the guts of The Plaza hidden behind its golden facade.
Matthew’s fifty feet ahead, Cal wheezing beside him. They spot a side exit—employee door leading to the loading docks—and bolt.
I’m faster. Adrenaline and rage make me so fast, that I’m closing the distance, my heels clicking on tile like gunshots. Matthew reaches the door, shoves it open—
And Mother’s there.
Catherine Davenport stands in the loading dock wearing black Dior and pearls, a town car idling behind her. She’s holding a briefcase. Running money. Escape plan.
They were going to leave together.
“Get in!” Mother’s voice cracks. “Both of you—now!”
“Isabelle’s here—” Matthew starts.
“I don’t care. Move!”
I burst through the door, gun raised, and Mother’s face goes white. Behind me, Sergei appears, his own weapon drawn, covering the angles with professional precision.
“Going somewhere?” My voice echoes off concrete. “Without saying goodbye?”
“Isabelle, please.” Mother’s mask slips. “You don’t understand what you’re doing. These are dangerous men—”
“I married one. I think I can handle it.” I advance slowly, gun steady despite my hands wanting to shake. “Besides, the only dangerous people here are you two. Murderers. Thieves. Cowards, running away instead of facing consequences.”
“We’ll give you anything.” Matthew’s backing toward the car. “Money, power, control of the company. Just let us leave.”
“You killed my father.” The words come out quiet. Lethal. “You think I want your blood money? I want justice. I want you in prison. I want you to rot.”
Cal Reznick makes his move. Stupid, desperate, but he lunges for Mother’s briefcase—probably full of cash or documents or both. The sudden movement triggers chaos.
Sergei fires. The bullet catches Cal in the chest. He drops, briefcase clattering across concrete, spilling hundred dollar bills that scatter like confetti.
Mother screams.
Matthew draws a gun I didn’t know he had, swinging it toward Sergei—
I pull the trigger.
The shot echoes. Matthew staggers, clutching his shoulder where my bullet tore through expensive fabric and flesh. His gun clatters away, and he collapses against the town car, sliding down until he’s sitting in a growing pool of blood and cash.
“You shot me.” He stares at the wound like he can’t process it. “Your own uncle—”
“You’re not family. Family doesn’t murder each other. You’re just a man who killed my father and thought he’d get away with it.” I close the distance, gun still raised, and I kick his weapon away. “You thought wrong.”
Mother’s frozen, mascara streaking down her perfect face, pearls clutched in white-knuckled hands. Behind her, the town car’s engine cuts off. The driver—smart man—bolts, leaving her stranded.
“Catherine Davenport?” Detective Fraser’s voice cuts through the night. He appears from the service entrance, flanked by uniformed officers, and behind them—
Wesley. Carrying an enormous file box like it’s treasure.
“Detective Fraser,” I lower my gun, suddenly exhausted. “Perfect timing.”
“Mrs. Orlov.” Fraser’s eyes sweep the scene—Matthew bleeding, Cal dead, Mother trembling, me covered in blood that’s mostly not mine. “You want to tell me what happened here?”
“Self-defense. Matthew and his associates attacked us at the gala. Multiple witnesses. Security footage. The whole thing.”
“Convenient.” But Fraser’s smiling slightly, like he expected this. “And the gentleman on the ground?”
“Cal Reznick. He drew on my husband. Bad decision.”
“I’ll say.” Fraser gestures to the uniforms. “Secure the scene. Get that man medical attention—” He points at Matthew, “—and take Mrs. Davenport into custody.”
“What?” Mother’s voice rises to a shriek. “I haven’t done anything! I’m the victim here—my daughter just tried to kill—”
“Your daughter just stopped you from fleeing the country with a co-conspirator.” Wesley steps forward, settling the file box on the hood of a police cruiser.
“Catherine Davenport, you’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder, accessory to murder, fraud, and about fifteen other charges I’ll let the DA enumerate. ”
“This is insane. I want my lawyer—”
“You’ll get one. At the station. After processing.” Fraser nods to the uniforms, and they move to either side of Mother. “Catherine Davenport, you have the right to remain silent—”