Chapter 20 #2
“Don’t make this about love.” Her voice carries exhaustion rather than anger. “Don’t try to turn Papa’s murder into some romantic tragedy where we’re star-crossed lovers fighting against the world.”
“I’m not trying to romanticize anything.
” I step closer to her, needing her to understand.
“I’m trying to tell you my feelings for you are the reason I’m going to make sure his death is avenged properly.
Nothing I do will bring him back.” I reach for her hand again, grateful when she doesn’t pull away.
“All I can do is make sure the people who killed him pay for what they took from you.”
She lays her head on my chest. “Thank you. I want them all dead.”
I put a hand on her back. “I know. So do I. We’re going to make it happen.”
The next few days settle into a routine of careful distance and tentative connection.
Zita reads books she brought from the mansion, takes long walks around the lake with one of my guards trailing at a respectful distance, and sits by the fire in the evenings while I coordinate with my men via encrypted satellite phone.
She’s not pulling away from me completely, but she’s not seeking comfort either. We share meals, sleep in the same bed, and have conversations about practical matters, but the easy intimacy we’d been building has been replaced by something more fragile and uncertain.
“Who was that?” she asks when I come inside after a particularly long call with Viktor about Federoff's safe houses.
“Viktor. He’s tracking down leads on Avgar’s current location.”
“Any progress?”
“Some. They’re moving frequently, but they’re leaving traces.” I settle into the chair across from where she’s reading on the couch. “We’ll find them.”
“What happens when you do find them?” Zita sets down her book, giving me her full attention. “What happens when you’ve killed everyone responsible for Papa’s death?”
“Then we go home and start rebuilding.”
“Rebuilding what?”
“Our life together and whatever version of normal we can create from what’s left.”
She considers this for a long moment, studying my face like she’s trying to determine whether I really believe what I’m saying. “I want to be involved.”
Her statement surprises me with its sudden decisiveness. “Involved in what?”
“In ending this and making them pay for what they did.” Zita leans forward, and I can see the steel in her expression that first attracted me to her. “I don’t want to sit here reading books while you handle the people who murdered my father.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why not? We agreed to be partners. We agreed to work together instead of you making unilateral decisions about my safety.”
“This is different.”
She scowls. “How is it different?”
“Because this is war. The people we’re hunting will kill you without hesitation if they get the chance.” I lean forward to match her intensity. “I won’t risk losing you to get revenge for losing your father.”
“You won’t lose me if we’re smart about it.” She sounds like she’s analyzing business problems, not discussing a bratva war. “You’ll lose me if you shut me out and make me feel like a helpless victim instead of a partner.”
The threat is clear, and she clearly means it. The grief has changed her, but it hasn’t made her weak. If anything, it’s made her more determined to take control of her own fate.
“What exactly are you proposing?”
“I want to plan this together. We use my knowledge of Papa’s business connections and your knowledge of their operations to find them faster.
” She sits back, her expression serious but not angry.
“I’m proposing we end this as partners instead of you trying to protect me from the consequences of my own choices. ”
I study her face, looking for any sign that grief is driving her toward something she’s not prepared to handle. What I see instead is the same intelligence and determination that made me fall in love with her in the first place.
“You understand what you’re asking for? You understand that planning their deaths means being complicit in their deaths?”
“Yes. Sitting here while you risk your life to avenge my father makes me complicit in potentially losing you too.” Zita reaches for my hand. “We’re stronger together than apart, especially when we’re dealing with something this personal.”
“This isn’t a business negotiation, Zita. This is killing people who’ve already proven they’ll target anyone we care about.”
“That’s why I need to be involved instead of being protected from it.” She squeezes my hand. “If something happens to you while you’re trying to protect me, I’ll be alone and defenseless anyway.”
The logic is sound, even if it goes against every protective instinct I have.
More importantly, excluding her from this will damage the partnership we’ve built more than including her will.
“You follow my lead. You don’t take unnecessary risks, and you trust my judgment about when situations become too dangerous. ”
“Agreed.”
“If I tell you to run, you run. If I tell you to hide, you hide. No arguments or second-guessing.”
She nods solemnly. “Agreed.”
That night, we spread maps and intelligence reports across the kitchen table, planning our approach to ending the Federoff threat permanently.
Zita’s insights into her father’s business connections provide angles I hadn’t considered, while my knowledge of Bratva operations helps her understand how they’re likely to respond to pressure.
Working together on something concrete helps restore the easy collaboration we’d been developing before Claude’s death.
It’s not the same dynamic we had before because her grief and my lingering guilt have changed both of us, but something new that accounts for what we’ve lost and what we’ve learned about each other.
“Thank you.” Zita’s voice is quiet as we organize the intelligence files for tomorrow’s planning session.
I arch a brow. “For what?”
“For letting me be part of this instead of trying to protect me from it.” She looks at me directly.
I nod. “Thank you for not giving up on us when it would have been easier to blame me for everything.”
“I thought about it.” Her honesty is typical of the directness that defines our relationship. “For about a week after the funeral, I thought about hating you and walking away from everything we’d built.”
“What changed your mind?”
“I realized that losing Papa was horrible enough without also losing you.” Zita reaches for my hand across the table covered with plans for violence and revenge. “Grief was trying to steal the only good thing that came from this whole mess.”
“What good thing?”
“Us. What we’ve become together, and the partnership that’s stronger than anything either of us could build alone.”
I bring her hand to my lips, pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles before we head to bed.
The woman I married never could have planned someone’s death.
The woman walking beside me toward our bedroom has been shaped by loss into someone capable of doing whatever it takes to prevent more loss.
I meant it when I told her I loved her, and I love both versions, but I have a preference for the warrior she’s becoming even though I’d rather keep her locked away safely in the cabin.
She won’t allow that, and I won’t risk losing her by imposing my will on her, so I have to trust her strength and resolve to see this through.