Chapter 17
Lev
Every suspicion has been confirmed.
Every red flag has been validated.
Every instinct I ignored because I was thinking with my cock instead of my brain—all of it proven right.
Everything I was trying to pretend I don’t know about, everything I’ve been praying isn’t real.
She was a spy the entire time.
In my house. In my bed. With my daughter. In my fucking heart.
Patrick O'Rourke's asset. His weapon. His revenge for the men I killed, planted right under my nose while I was stupid enough to fall for big brown eyes and lies wrapped in silk.
The rage that floods through me is black. Consuming. The kind that makes vision go red and hands shake with the need to destroy something.
To destroy her.
My hand moves toward my gun on instinct. Muscle memory. The solution is simple. One bullet, problem solved, betrayal punished.
Behind the door, I hear her sobbing. Broken sounds that might be words, but I can't process them past the roaring in my ears.
She betrayed me. Made me vulnerable. Made me trust again after I swore I'd never be that stupid.
And I fell for it. Fell for her. Let her into every corner of my life while she was feeding information to the man who murdered my family.
The gun is in my hand before I consciously decide to grab it.
I'm moving down the hallway. Past my destroyed bedroom, shattered glass from the mirror I put my fist through, vodka staining the carpet, the scent of expensive cologne mixing with blood from my split knuckles.
To her door.
Locked. Like that would stop me.
I kick it open. The lock splinters. The door slams against the wall hard enough to crack plaster.
She's on the floor, curled in a ball, sobbing so hard her whole body shakes. When she sees me and the gun in my hand, her eyes go wide with terror.
I cross the space in three strides. Grab her by the throat. Haul her up and slam her against the wall hard enough that her head cracks against it.
Her hands fly to my wrist, trying to pry my fingers away, but I'm not squeezing yet. Just holding. Just showing her how easy it would be.
"Give me one reason." My voice comes out cold. Deadly calm. "One fucking reason I shouldn't kill you right here, right now."
"I'm sorry—" She's choking on tears, on fear, on words that won't save her. "Lev, please, I'm sorry—"
"Sorry?" I tighten my grip slightly. Watch her eyes go wider. "You're sorry? You spied on me for weeks. Gathered intelligence for my enemy. Put my daughter at risk. And you think sorry fixes that?"
"No, I know it doesn't, but please… I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry."
"How do I know any of this is real?" I lean closer, until we're eye to eye, until she can see the rage burning in me.
"How do I know you're not still playing me?
That this confession isn't just another manipulation?
That Patrick didn't send you here to gain my trust so you could destroy me from the inside? "
"Because I love you!" It tears out of her, desperate and broken. "I love you, Lev. I know I don't have the right. I know I fucked everything up. But it's true. I fell for you. For Mila. And I couldn't go through with it anymore. Couldn't keep betraying you—"
"Liar." I squeeze harder. Watch her face start to change color. "You don't love me. You love staying alive. You love whatever Patrick promised you. This is just another lie in a long line of lies—"
"It's not—" She's gasping now, clawing at my hand. "Please, Lev… can't… breathe"
My fingers tighten.
She makes a small, broken, terrified sound, and something in it cracks through the rage.
I release her.
She collapses to the floor, gasping, sobbing, hands at her throat where my fingers left marks.
And I stand there shaking with the need to finish it. To end her. To make the pain stop by eliminating its source.
The door opens behind me.
Mikhail. Gun drawn. Assessing the situation with one look, me standing over Valerie, her on the floor crying, the rage radiating off me like heat.
"Boss?" His voice is carefully neutral.
"Lock her in the basement." The words come out flat. "Secure holding. No contact. No phone. Nothing."
"Lev, please—" Valerie reaches for me, and I step back like her touch burns. "Please don't do this! My brother… Patrick's going to kill him!"
"Your brother isn't my problem." I holster my gun before I use it. "You made your choices. Now you live with the consequences."
"But you said—you said you'd help with whatever trouble I was in."
"I said nothing." I turn to Mikhail. "Get her out of my sight. Now."
He gestures, and two guards appear. They grab Valerie under the arms, haul her up.
She fights. Tries to pull away. Screams my name like it'll change anything.
"Lev, please! He's going to kill Ethan! Please, I'm begging you!"
The guards drag her toward the stairs. Her screams echo through the house, raw, desperate, breaking on my name over and over.
I don't follow. Don't watch. Just stand in her room surrounded by her things and let the rage consume me.
When her screams finally fade, I walk back to my office. The one place that's still mine, still untouched by her lies.
Except it's not, because every space in my home has been tainted by her.
I punch through the painting on the wall, and my knuckles begin to bleed, split open from the shattered glass of the painting. Blood streaks across the floor, but I don't feel it. Don't feel anything except rage and pain and the crushing weight of my own stupidity.
I trusted her. Let her in. Showed her everything. Made myself vulnerable for the first time in five years.
And she was working for Patrick the entire time.
The pain is worse than when Katya died.
Worse because I chose this. Chose to ignore the red flags. Chose to believe her lies. Chose to fall for her despite every instinct screaming that something was wrong.
I collapse into the chair, head in my bloody hands, and let the reality crash over me.
I fell for her. Actually fell. Somewhere between watching her with Mila and feeling her in my arms, I stopped seeing her as a potential threat and started seeing her as mine.
And she was never mine. She was always his.
Eventually, the anger burns itself out. Leaves nothing but cold calculation and the need for answers.
I pull myself up. Wash the blood off my hands. Change into clean clothes.
Then I head to the basement.
It’s time to interrogate my prisoner.
The holding cell is exactly what it sounds like, concrete walls, steel door, a cot bolted to the floor. We use it for interrogations. For people who need convincing before they talk.
Valerie is curled on the cot, arms wrapped around herself, face blotchy from crying.
When I enter, she flinches. Presses herself against the wall like she can disappear into it.
I scoff, pull out the chair, and sit, studying her in silence.
She looks small. Broken. Nothing like the woman who stood between my daughter and a gun.
"We're going to have a conversation," I say finally. Voice cold. Clinical. "And you're going to tell me everything. No lies. No omissions. Complete truth. Understand?"
She nods frantically.
"How long have you been working for Patrick?"
"Since my father died almost three months ago." Her voice is hoarse, probably from screaming. "He told me my mother and brother’s lives depended on me completing the assignment my father failed to carry out."
"What did you pass him?"
"Guard rotations at first. Vehicle schedules. Property layouts. Nothing critical." She's shaking. "But he kept demanding more. Kept threatening Ethan when I didn't deliver fast enough."
This is everything she’s said before.
"When did you stop?"
"Two weeks ago. After the park. After I realized I—" She chokes on the words. "After I couldn't do it anymore."
"And Patrick's response?"
“The photos. The videos. The escalating violence against my brother. A seventy-two-hour deadline to send your complete schedule, or Ethan dies.”
I stand. Move to the table against the wall where interrogation tools wait. Pliers. Knives. Things designed to extract truth through pain.
I pick up the pliers. Let her see them. Let her imagine what I could do with them.
My fingers shake. Just slightly. Just enough that I have to grip harder to hide it.
Because part of me, some sick, twisted part, can’t hurt her. Still sees her as mine despite everything.
I hate that part of myself.
"Here's what's going to happen." I turn to face her, pliers in hand. "You're going to tell me everything Patrick knows. Every piece of intel you passed. Every conversation you had. Every plan he's made."
"Lev, please—"
"And if I think you're lying," I take a step closer. Let the tool catch the light. "I'm going to start removing pieces of you until the truth comes out. Starting with fingers. Then toes. Then, other parts you'll miss more."
The fear in her eyes is absolute. Primal. The kind that says she believes every word.
It's a dagger to my heart.
But I deserve this hurt. Deserve this pain. Because I let my guard down. Because I chose to trust. Because I was weak.
"I'm not lying." She's crying again, hands held up defensively. "I swear I'm not lying. I'll tell you everything. Just please don't—"
"Then start talking." I set the pliers down but keep my hand on them. A reminder. "And Valerie? If you leave anything out, I'll know. And you won't like what happens next."
She talks. For an hour straight. Tells me everything all over again, no inconsistency.
The specific intel she passed. The photos of Ethan progressively more beaten. The demands that escalated from simple guard schedules to complete operational details.
And the trap.
"He's planning an ambush." Her voice is barely above a whisper. "That's why he wants your location. He's planning to kill you and anyone with you."
My jaw clenches. "So did you tell him the location?"
Even though I already know the answer.
"No." She presses her hands over her face. "I haven’t said anything; he’s still waiting on that information before he can make his move."
Interesting.
An ambush I know about is an ambush I can reverse.
"What else?"
"He has Ethan in a warehouse on the docks. Pier 47. " Her voice breaks.
I process this. The intel she's giving me is detailed. Specific. The kind that would be hard to fabricate on the spot.
Either she's telling the truth, or she's a better liar than I gave her credit for.
“And how do you know this?”
“My best friend, Tash, had her bodyguard find out the information because she is trying to help me. He found out Ethan’s whereabouts and told her.”
"Why should I believe any of this?" I move closer. "Why should I believe you're not still playing me? That this isn't just another layer of Patrick's plan?"
"Because I love…I love Mila!" It explodes out of her. "Because that little girl trusts me and I can't—I won't—be the reason she loses you. Because I'd rather die than hurt her like that."
"But you did hurt her. You put her at risk by being here."
"I know." She's sobbing now. "I know, and I hate myself for it. But I'm telling you the truth now. All of it. Because even if you kill me, at least you'll be alive. Mila will still have her father. And I will not have to live with the pain of knowing I sent my brother to an early grave."
I study her face. The tears are real. The fear is real. The guilt is real.
I want to believe it's manipulation. Want to believe she's incapable of actual feeling. Want to believe this is all an act.
But that look in her eyes when she talks about Mila—that's not something you can fake.
I make a decision.
"Here's what's going to happen." I lean against the table, arms crossed. "I'm going to use your intel. Reverse Patrick's trap. Kill him and his men. Extract your brother."
Hope flashes across her face. "You're going to save Ethan?"
"I'm going to eliminate a threat to my organization and recover a potential asset for leverage." My voice stays cold. "Don't mistake that for mercy."
"I don't—thank you."
"And after?" I cut her off. "After Patrick's dead and your family is safe? We're done. You're finished here."
She flinches like I hit her.
"You'll leave. Take your mother and brother and disappear. I don't care where. Just somewhere I never have to see your face again."
"But Mila—"
"Will be told you had a family emergency and couldn't stay." The words taste like ash. "She'll cry. She'll ask for you. And eventually, she'll forget. Children are resilient that way."
"Lev, please…"
"This isn't a negotiation." I push off the table. "You betrayed me. Lied to me. Put everything I've built at risk. The only reason you're not already dead is because killing you would hurt my daughter. But I will not keep you here. Do you understand?"
She nods. Tears streaming down her face. Looking absolutely destroyed.
Good.
She should hurt. Should feel a fraction of what she's put me through.
I head for the door, then pause. Look back at her one last time.
"For what it's worth?" My voice softens just slightly. "I believe you love Mila. That part was real. Everything else? I'll never know for sure. And that's the part that's going to haunt us both."
Then I leave.
Lock the door behind me.
And go plan how to kill Patrick O'Rourke.
I'm going to paint the docks with his blood tonight.