Chapter 39 #2
Mother’s gaze finds mine across the loading dock. For a second, she looks old. Defeated. The mask she’s worn for thirty years finally cracking beyond repair.
“You don’t understand what it takes to survive,” she whispers.
“The choices women like us have to make. The men we have to placate. The power we have to seize because they’ll never give it willingly.
You’re too young. Too naive. You think love and righteousness will protect you, but they won’t.
They’ll destroy you like they destroyed your father. ”
I step closer, close enough to smell her perfume—Chanel No. 5, the scent of my childhood nightmares.
“You were right, Mother.” My hand finds the lighter in my pocket, pulling it free. The gold catches the glow of a streetlight, Dad’s presence solid in my palm. “Weakness is a luxury the rich can’t afford. I stopped affording it the day you killed him.”
Her face crumbles completely. Not the elegant tears of a socialite, but raw, ugly grief. Regret mixing with rage.
“I loved him once,” she chokes out. “Before everything got so complicated. I did love him.”
“Not enough. Not enough to stay faithful. Not enough to let him live. Not even enough to protect your daughter when your choices came back to haunt you.” I flip the lighter open.
The flame catches, small and defiant against the night.
“But I loved him enough. And that’s why you’re going to prison instead of six feet under. ”
The flame reflects in Sergei’s grey eyes as he moves to my side. His hand finds my waist, warm and grounding through red silk still sticky with blood.
“It’s over,” he says quietly. “We won.”
“Not yet.” I watch the officers lead Mother toward the cruiser, her perfect hair finally coming undone, pearls catching light one last time. “Wesley?”
“Already done.” He pats the file box. “Everything’s with the DA. Financial records proving the conspiracy, audio recordings of both your mother and Matthew admitting to the murder, witness testimony placing them at the scene. It’s ironclad, Izzy. They’re going away for a long time.”
“And Matthew?” I glance at my uncle, now being loaded onto a stretcher by paramedics. “He survives?”
“Shoulder wound. He’ll live to stand trial.” Wesley’s smile is sharp. “Which is exactly what you wanted. Public conviction. Public humiliation. Everyone knowing what he did.”
“And if he still manages to slip through the cracks,” Sergei whispers, “we’ll find a way to end him. Permanently.”
“Perfect.” I close the lighter, the flame dying, and slip it back into my pocket. Dad’s fire contained but not extinguished. “Then let’s go home.”
Detective Fraser stops us at the entrance. “I’ll need statements. From all of you. Tomorrow morning, downtown.”
“We’ll be there.” Sergei’s arm tightens around me. “With our lawyer.”
“Figured as much.” Fraser glances at the chaos we’ve created. “For what it’s worth? Your father was a good man, Mrs. Orlov. He deserved better than what he got. I’m glad you made sure his killers paid.”
“Me, too, Detective. Me, too.”
We walk back through The Plaza’s service corridors, emerging into the ballroom. The gala’s destroyed—overturned tables, shattered glass, abandoned champagne flutes. Police swarm, taking statements from shell-shocked guests. Cameras flash. News crews are already setting up outside.
Tomorrow’s headlines will be spectacular.
Tonight, I focus on putting one foot in front of the other. On Sergei’s solid presence beside me. On the fact that we’re alive, and Mother’s in handcuffs, and Matthew’s bleeding out in an ambulance.
We survived.
“Mrs. Orlov!” A reporter shoves a microphone in my face as we exit onto Fifth Avenue. “Can you comment on the violence at tonight’s gala? Sources say your uncle attacked you—”
“No comment,” Sergei growls, steering me toward our SUV.
“Is it true your mother’s been arrested for murder?”
“Is Matthew Ashford dead?”
“Mrs. Orlov, please—”
I stop. Turn. Face the cameras and the reporters and all of Manhattan watching through their screens.
“Matthew Ashford and Catherine Davenport conspired to murder my father, Richard Davenport, four months ago. Tonight, they attempted to kill me and my husband to cover their crimes. They failed. Justice will be served. That’s all I have to say.”
Sergei pulls me into the SUV before they can ask follow-ups. The door slams, cutting off the shouting, and suddenly, it’s quiet, except for the engine’s rumble.
“You okay?” His hands frame my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones. “You’re covered in blood. Any of it yours?”
“No. All theirs.” I stare at my hands—red silk stain-darkened, the Glock still clutched in my right palm. “I shot Matthew. Put a bullet in a man I loved like an uncle.”
“You defended yourself. Defended us. That’s not murder. That’s survival.”
“Is it?” I meet his eyes, searching for judgment or horror or anything except the acceptance burning there. “Because it felt like revenge. And I liked it. I liked watching him fall. Liked seeing Mother led away in handcuffs. What does that make me?”
“Dangerous.” He kisses me, hard and claiming, tasting like smoke and copper. “Mine. Alive. Pick whichever matters most.”
“All of them.” I kiss him back, desperate and relieved, needing the confirmation that we’re here, that we survived, that tomorrow exists. “Take me home. To Mila. To our life. I want to scrub off the blood and hold our daughter and sleep for a week.”
“Deal.” He shifts into drive, navigating away from The Plaza, away from the chaos, toward Brooklyn.
I stare out the window, watching Manhattan blur past. Somewhere behind us, Mother’s being processed. Matthew’s in surgery. Cal’s corpse is being photographed and catalogued.
And Dad’s lighter sits warm in my pocket, gold and scorched and proof that some fires refuse to die.
I did it, Dad. I made them pay. Every single one of them.
The thought should bring satisfaction. Closure. Instead, I feel hollowed out. Empty in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with winning a war I never wanted to fight.
“Hey.” Sergei’s hand finds my thigh, warm through silk. “You did good tonight. Stayed sharp. Didn’t freeze. Protected yourself and took down the people who killed your father. That’s victory, kotyonok.”
“Then why does victory feel like grief?”
“Because vengeance doesn’t fill the hole they left. Just stops the bleeding. But you did what you had to do. What your father would’ve wanted. You protected his legacy. Made sure his killers faced consequences. That’s worth something.”
“Is it? Mother will go to trial. Matthew, too, if he survives. The media will dissect every detail. Davenport Holdings will be in chaos. And I’ll have to rebuild everything they destroyed.”
“Not alone.” His voice is absolute. “You’ve got me. You’ve got Mila. You’ve got Wesley and Andrei and everyone who chose your side. We’ll rebuild together.”
The bridge appears ahead, Brooklyn rising beyond it like sanctuary. Home. Safety. The fortress where Mila’s waiting, probably watching the clock, counting minutes until we return.
“She’ll ask questions,” I say. “Mila. She’s too smart not to. We can’t lie to her about tonight.”
“No. But we can tell her the truth. That bad people tried to hurt us, and we stopped them. That justice won. That her family’s safe now. She’s strong enough to handle it. Like her father. Like her mother.”
“I love her,” I whisper. “Your daughter. I love her like she’s mine.”
“I know. She knows. That’s why tonight mattered. Why stopping Matthew and your mother was non-negotiable. Because we’re protecting our family. All of us.”
Inside the house, lights glow warm. I hear Mila’s laughter, probably at something Milo said.
Normal sounds. Safe sounds.
Worth fighting for. Worth killing for.
I climb out, suddenly aware of how the red dress clings, how my feet are killing me, how blood’s dried on my hands in patterns that look like abstract art.
“I need a shower. About eight hours of sleep. And to hug Mila until she complains.”
“Come on.” Sergei takes my hand, leading me inside. “Let’s go see our girl. Then tomorrow, we start rebuilding.”
Tomorrow. A future past survival. Past vengeance.
A future where the Davenport empire rises from ashes, stronger and sharper, with The Wolf’s wife at its head.
I follow him inside, Dad’s lighter heavy in my pocket, and let the door close on everything that came before.