Chapter 19 Lily
LILY
I always thought the New York skyline would feel like safety. Like home. But as the cruiser cuts through Queens, sliding into Brooklyn, then toward the jagged brilliance of Manhattan, all it gives me is dread. The city glows, all glass and steel, but it does not warm me.
The car is silent. Toscani and the officer in the front do not speak, and I am left with only the sound of my own breathing and the endless churn of my thoughts. Time folds in on itself. Every turn, every stoplight blurs, and yet my chest tightens with each passing block.
Then we stop, and I am outside the precinct. The cold air bites my face when the door opens, and my heart races so fast I think I might be sick. This is where Aleksander must be. He has to be here.
God, I just want to see him. I can’t get the last image of him out of my mind—him pressed against the metal grate of that police van, rage burning in his eyes as he fought them all just to reach me.
He looked feral, unhinged, like nothing in the world could hold him back.
And somehow, that memory—his rage—is the only thing steadying me now.
He will come for me. No matter what, he will come.
I repeat that to myself as they lead me inside, through the glass doors, into a world of white walls and buzzing lights that feel like a different planet.
I was always the good kid. The girl who avoided trouble, who never once got detention in high school, even though I spent hours sitting outside waiting for Nadia to be released from hers. I never thought I’d be here, shepherded down halls like I’ve done something unspeakable.
The motions are mechanical: a headshot, fingers pressed to ink, a holding cell. None of it feels real. My body is just doing what it’s told while my mind runs in a hundred panicked directions.
I’m pacing before I even realize it, the sound of my footsteps sharp against the concrete floor. My hands tremble, and I raise them to my mouth, falling back on an old habit I thought I’d buried years ago—biting at the ragged edge of my nails.
The walls feel closer every second.
I know what comes next. Interrogation. They’ll try to peel me open, pry at the weakest parts of me until I give them what they want.
I need to hold out. I need to be stone. For him.
But I’ve never been good at masks, not the kind that matter.
When they finally come for me, my heart lurches. I smooth my hands over the fabric of my dress as if that could fix the way I feel—like I am all sharp corners and shaking glass.
And as they guide me down the hall, each step closer to that cold room, I whisper to myself like a prayer: He’s coming. Aleksander will come.
The door swings open with a metallic groan, and my stomach drops.
Of course.
The last person I want to see walks in like she owns the room.
Dahlia.
Gone is the soft, forgettable presence she used to wear like armor.
Now she’s a wall of steel. An NYPD windbreaker cuts sharp lines over her frame, khakis pressed into precise creases, a badge dangling from her neck like a noose.
She sits across from me and lays a manila folder on the table, fat with papers that could be anything—reports, photographs, lies.
For one heart-stopping second, I can’t breathe. Then I force my spine straight.
No. Alek covered every base. There is no evidence. I am the only loose end. And I will not let them use me to unravel him.
She smirks, a predator’s smile, but her eyes are all calculation. “Hello, Lily,” she says, voice smooth, like she’s savoring this moment. “Or should I call you Jessie?”
The name hits me like a slap. My pulse spikes, but I lock it down. She’s looking for a crack, the first hairline fracture in my composure. If she gets it, she’ll wedge it open until I break.
This is a chess game. She made her first move. Now it’s my turn.
I tilt my head and smile back, light and bright like I have no idea what storm she’s trying to summon. “Lily’s fine,” I say, deliberately casual. “Oh my god, Dahlia, I didn’t know you were a cop. That’s so interesting. How long have you been one?”
For a fraction of a second, she hesitates. A flicker of surprise. Everyone underestimates me. I see it in their faces—the girl they thought would crumble under fluorescent lights.
“Eleven years,” she says finally, settling back into her chair, “going on twelve this year. Lily, do you know—”
“Wow, that’s such a long time,” I cut in, feigning wide-eyed curiosity. “Being a cop here at the… uh, where are we again?”
I let the words drift, airy, as if I’m too distracted to keep track. I am banking everything on this. Let them think I’m ditzy, harmless. Let them choke on their own frustration.
“Ms. Walters, wha—”
“Mrs. Petrov,” I interrupt again, firm this time. “Don’t worry. Detective Toscani made the same mistake. But it’s Petrov now.”
The correction warms me from the inside. Just saying it—claiming it—brings Aleksander back to me for a split second.
“Right,” Dahlia says, recovering. “My apologies, Lily. This is a police investigation, and I’d like your perspective on a rather important matter.”
I lean back in my chair, hands folded neatly in my lap.
“Detective Toscani said something about being a suspect in a murder,” I say, widening my eyes just enough to look naive.
“But, honestly? I have no idea why I’m here.
I count my lucky stars that I’ve never been anywhere near something like that in my life. ”
Her smile turns thin. “Interesting, seeing that you said you were bringing Chinese food for a non-existent group of lawyers .”
The word hits me like a knife, but I don’t even blink. “A partial truth,” I say, clear and unwavering. “I was bringing Chinese for my husband and his colleagues."
She chuckles lightly. “Is that what the Bratva call themselves and the Polish and Italian mafias? Colleagues?”
“Those are a lot of names and subliminal accusations you’re spewing, as a woman of the law,” I shake my head as if I am disappointed. “With no evidence? Absolutely crazy.”
“No evidence? Lily,” she leans forward, voice hardening, “do you know what he…what all of them do for a living?”
“Yes,” I say, innocent as a lamb. “Aleksandr runs numbers for Petrov Industries, CFO. Nadia is CEO, and Nik is COO.”
I rattle the titles off like they’re all true but in all reality I am pulling these titles out of my butt, but isn’t that how companies go? CEO, CFO, Chief of something?
Her laugh is cold. “Okay, so let's play the game that all those titles and you being in the dark about it is all true. Do you know about the ties between Petrov Industries and the Bratva?”
I twist my lip to the side, and smile. “They are both Russian.”
“You have a thick layer of wit, don’t you?” she comments, leaning forward on the tables. “Just like a lawyer.”
“Lawyer, right, how could I forget,” I interrupt again, smiling so sweetly it could rot teeth. “I’m such a silly goose. Speaking of which, I need my lawyer. You know, rich people problems.”
Dahlia’s eyes narrow. “Lily, I just want to ask you a few questions. Then you’ll be free to go. A lawyer will only elongate this process and—”
“That’s okay,” I say, still smiling. “I just got back from my honeymoon. I have time to spare. Can I have my phone call, please?”
The sigh that comes out of her is heavy, frustrated. And for the first time since this all began, I feel like I’ve taken a piece off her side of the board.
Good.
If I can keep this up, they’ll get nothing. Alek will be safe, and I will be safe.
I just need to hold on long enough for Gwen to walk through that door.
The officers exchange a glance, silently weighing whether I’m bluffing. Dahlia lets out a low exhale and drags her hand down her face, smearing her frustration into her palm. “We have to give her the phone call,” she mutters, half to Toscani, half to herself.
Reluctantly, she jerks her head toward the hallway. “Come on.”
My legs feel like stone as I stand, the weight of the cuffs making every step feel slower than it is. Dahlia keeps close to me, her presence like a shadow breathing down my neck.
We stop in front of an old rotary phone mounted to the wall. She taps the wall twice, making me flinch. “Three minutes,” she says flatly. “Make it count.”
The dime wobbles in my fingers as I slide it into the slot. There’s only one number I know by heart—only one line that matters. The Petrov Industries landline.
I lift the receiver and dial. Each turn of the dial feels endless, like the world is slowing to match my panic.
The ringback tone buzzes three times. On the fourth, a familiar voice cuts through.
“Hello, Petrov Industries,” Nadia says, brisk and professional.
My throat closes up. For a second, no sound comes out. Then it bursts, cracked and uneven. “Nadi?”
There’s a beat of silence, then the sharp clatter of a chair, and Nadia’s voice shifts, loud and unrestrained. “It’s Lily!”
Something crashes on the other end, a few barks from King that make me choke up a bit, hurried footsteps, and then I hear it—the low, velvet rasp I’ve been dying for.
“Moya?”
I nearly collapse right there against the wall. My knees buckle as relief surges through me, hot and dizzying. His voice wraps around me like a lifeline, and for the first time since they dragged us away from each other, I can breathe.
“Alek,” I whisper. My voice is small, breaking, but I don’t care. Just hearing him melts me into something weightless and fragile.
He inhales sharply, and then there’s steel in his tone, layered with something softer beneath. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” I choke out, the word trembling so hard it barely makes it past my lips. “Are you okay?”
There’s a pause, and then—God, that sound—the low, rough chuckle that only Alek can give, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. “You’re the one in handcuffs, Moya, and you’re asking if I’m okay?”
I press my forehead harder against the cold tile, my eyes closing. My hands clutch the receiver like if I let go, I’ll lose him entirely. “Yes,” I whisper, because it matters. It matters more than anything.
“I am fine, Moya,” he says, and I can hear the smallest smile hiding beneath the gravel of his voice, the kind of smile that’s only ever for me.
Relief blooms in my chest, enough to steal my breath. “Then I’m okay,” I whisper back, and the sigh that leaves him—soft, almost tender—has me preening like a swan desperate to show off its wings.
“We found out you’re downtown, and Gwen is already getting ready to be on her way now,” Aleksandr assures me, and I can picture his face now: calm, calculated, but those serious grey eyes full of fire. “Just hold on, moya malen’kaya. Do not say a word to them. Not a word.”
“Yes, sir,” I whisper, my voice trembling but obedient.
A rough groan catches in his throat, and then his voice drops, strained, raw, like he’s biting back something primal. “Fuck, Moya. Don’t say that when I can’t touch you.”
In the background, Nadia’s voice cuts in, loud and unfiltered: “Ugh! I’m leaving the room if you two start with this—”
There’s a sharp ruffle of fabric, the sound of her retreating, and another voice slides through—Gwen’s, clear and controlled, all business.
“What are they saying to you?” she demands, no patience for pleasantries.
I steady my breath, clinging to the thread of calm Alek has given me. “Nothing. They can just place me entering the alley, but they’re not saying anything else. No evidence. No cameras. I haven’t even been charged with anything yet.”
“Good,” Gwen huffs, the exhale sharp, decisive. “That means they have you on a seventy-two-hour hold.”
On the other end, Alek snarls—low and lethal. “Seventy-two hours?”
“It’s standard procedure,” Gwen tries, her tone level, but he’s not hearing it.
“She’s not staying there for seventy-two hours!” His voice spikes, sharp enough that I have to hold the receiver away for a second.
“Aleksandr—” Gwen tries again, but there’s another shuffle, a short, frustrated sound, and then he’s back.
“Moya,” he says, his voice rough, like he’s clawing through glass to get to me.
“Yes?”
“I will get you out,” he says, low and certain, as if it’s already done.
“Alek—”
“No,” he cuts me off, firmer now, forcing the words through, each one like a vow. “I will get you, and then I will take you somewhere where there is only me and you. Do you understand? No one else. Just us.”
My throat closes around a sob that I don’t let out. “Okay.”
For a moment, there’s just the sound of our breathing over the line—two people holding onto a single thread across the city.
“I love you, Moya,” he says, softer now, but with a weight that sinks into my bones.
“I love you too,” I whisper back.
Then the line goes dead with a sharp click, and the machine voice asks for ten more cents to extend the call.
But I hang up, slowly, my hands still shaking, because I don’t need the line anymore. I know him.
He is coming for me.