Lev
Rico Alvarez died screaming.
I made sure of it.
Captured him in the firefight at Patrick's compound, dragged him to the basement of the burning building, and spent seventeen minutes extracting every piece of information his terror-soaked brain could produce before I put a bullet through his skull.
He told me everything. Patrick's safe houses. His supply routes. The names of men still loyal to him. Where he keeps his money.
But not where Patrick himself was hiding.
"He didn't tell me that shit," Rico had gasped through broken teeth and blood. "Too paranoid. Too careful. He just calls when he needs something, and I move."
"When did he last call?"
"This morning. Said to gather everyone at the compound. Said tonight we finish the Volkov problem." A wet laugh that turned into choking. "Guess he knew it was a trap. Guess he sent me to die while he disappeared."
I put him out of his misery, and I felt nothing.
But Patrick escaped. Which means he knows we're onto him. Knows Valerie turned. Knows I'm coming for him with everything I have.
And that makes him exponentially more dangerous because the element of surprise is gone.
A cornered animal fights hardest. A wounded predator becomes reckless and ruthless in equal measure.
Patrick O'Rourke is both now.
My blood runs cold every time I think about what's coming. Not for myself—I've survived assassination attempts before, will survive them again.
But for Mila.
For Valerie.
For everyone I've let close enough to matter.
The aftermath in my head is chaos.
I love Valerie. I hate her. I want her gone. I want her closer. Want to lock her in my room forever. Want to send her away where she'll be safe from the war I'm fighting.
She betrayed me—gathered intel, lied for months, worked for the man who murdered my family.
But she also saved me. Confessed before I could walk into Patrick's real trap. Gave me the information I needed to extract her family and destroy Rico's operation.
The contradiction is maddening.
Mikhail corners me three days after the ambush. "Boss, we need to talk about the girl."
I'm reviewing security protocols, adding layers, positioning men. "What about her?"
"She's a liability. Patrick knows she turned. He'll use that. Come after her to hurt you." He leans against my desk. "Safest play is relocating her. Somewhere Patrick can't reach."
"No."
"Lev—"
"I said no." I don't look up from the reports. "She stays here."
"That's insane. You're putting her in the line of fire."
"She put herself there when she walked into my house, working for Patrick." My jaw clenches. "She wants to make this right? She can do it by staying. By fighting. By proving she's actually on my side instead of running the second it gets dangerous."
"And if Patrick kills her?"
The thought makes something twist in my chest.
That will never fucking happen.
"He won’t get the chance."
Mikhail studies me. "You love her."
"I hate her."
"You can do both." He crosses his arms. "Question is whether you're keeping her here because you think it's strategic or because you can't let her go."
I finally look up. "Does it matter?"
"To your judgment? Yes. To the operation? Probably not. To her?" He shrugs. "That's between you two."
He leaves before I can respond.
And I sit there staring at security feeds showing Valerie in Mila's room, reading a story, completely oblivious to the conversation happening about her.
I can't let her go.
Not because it's strategic. Not because I need her for the fight against Patrick.
Because despite everything, despite the betrayal, the lies, the months of deception, I still want her.
Still need her in ways that make no rational sense.
It's pathological. Dangerous. The kind of weakness that gets men killed.
But I can't stop it.
I find myself craving her every night.
I fuck her with anger and desperation and the need to exorcise these feelings that won't die, no matter how much I want them to.
Some nights I'm rough, hands in her hair, forcing her head back, making her look at me as I brand her.
Other nights I'm desperate, pulling her close, burying myself inside her, holding on like she might disappear if I let go.
Those nights are worse because they feel too much like a need instead of punishment.
And I hate that it helps. Hate that having her there makes the rage settle into something manageable.
Tonight I wake from a nightmare, Patrick's men breaking through, Mila screaming, Valerie's body on the floor, and lunge for my gun on instinct.
Valerie's hand on my arm stops me. "It's okay. You're safe. It was just a dream."
My heart hammers. Sweat soaks the sheets. The nightmare lingers with visceral clarity.
"Lev." She pulls me back down. "Breathe. Just breathe."
I do. Let her hold me while the adrenaline fades. Let myself take comfort I don't deserve from the woman who caused half this mess.
"Patrick's coming," I say into the darkness. "Soon. I can feel it."
"I know."
"When he does, it'll be bad. Worse than the park. Worse than anything."
"I know." Her hand strokes through my hair. "But you’ll be ready."
"Will I?" I pull back enough to see her face in the dim light. "Or am I deluding myself that we can survive what's coming?"
"You'll survive." She says it with certainty I don't feel. "Because you're Lev Volkov. And you don't lose."
"Everyone loses eventually."
"Not you.”
The next day, I watch Mila talking nonstop to Valerie. She had been overjoyed when Valerie returned to regular duties. Oblivious to what had transpired between us.
I watch from the doorway as my daughter launches herself at Valerie, wrapping small arms around her waist, chattering about everything that happened while she was "sick"—the lie Elena told to explain the absence.
"I missed you so much! Elena doesn't do my hair the same way. And she reads too fast. And she doesn't know the voices for all the characters like you do."
"I missed you too, Cielo." Valerie kneels to Mila's level. "So much."
"Are you better now? You're not sick anymore?"
"All better. I promise."
"Good." Mila squeezes tighter. "Don't get sick again, okay? It's scary when you're not here."
The innocence is painful to witness.
Mila doesn't know about the basement. Doesn't know Valerie was locked up for betraying us. Doesn't know we're at war with the man who orchestrated her mother and brother’s murder.
She just knows the woman she loves disappeared and came back.
And that's enough to make her world right again.
Later that night, after Mila's asleep, I find Valerie in the library. She's curled in the chair by the window, staring at nothing.
"She doesn't know," Valerie says quietly when she notices me. "Doesn't know anything was wrong."
"She doesn't need to." I pour vodka at the bar cart. "Let her keep her innocence while she still has it."
"How long can we do that? How long before she realizes something's happening?"
"As long as possible." I drain the glass. Pour another. "She's seven. She's already lost too much. Let her have this."
Valerie nods. Then: "Do you still want me to leave?"
The question catches me off guard. "What?"
"After this is over. After Patrick's dealt with. Do you still want me to take my family and disappear?"
I should say yes. Should maintain the boundary. Should protect myself from further damage.
"No." The word comes out before I can stop it.
Her eyes widen. "No?"
"No, I don't want you to leave." I move closer. "I should. I should want you as far from here as possible. But I don't."
"Why?"
Good question.
"Because I'm an idiot. Because I apparently enjoy pain. Because despite everything you've done, I still—" I can't finish that sentence.
"Still what?"
"Want you here." Safer than the truth. "Need you here. For Mila."
She stands. Moves toward me slowly. "Will you ever forgive me?"
"No." Honest answer. "What you did, that’s not something I can just move past. You shattered my trust. Made me vulnerable. Put everything at risk. Imagine how easy it would have been to end this whole mess if you had told me the truth earlier."
Pain flashes across her face, but she doesn't look away. "Will you ever trust me again?"
I study her. See the genuine remorse in her eyes. The way she's stayed despite having every reason to run. How she takes my anger and punishment without complaint.
How she loves Mila like her own.
How she looks at me like I'm still worth loving despite being a monster.
"I don't know." The truth. "Ask me again when Patrick's dead and we're still breathing."
"And until then?"
"Until then, you stay. You protect Mila with your life."
“Okay…” she whispers.
"Come upstairs." I take her hand. "I need you."
She follows without question.
In my room, I undress her slowly. Map every bruise I've left, every mark that proves she's mine despite the betrayal.
Then I take her to bed. Slower than the past few nights. Still claiming, still possessive, but with something underneath that might be tenderness if I was willing to name it.
Afterward, we lie tangled together. Her head on my chest. My arms around her like I can keep her safe through proximity alone.
She presses closer. "I love you. I know you don't want to hear it. I know it doesn't change anything. But I need you to know."
"I'm trying to forgive you. Trying to trust you. It's just—"
"Hard. I know." She kisses my chest. "But I’ll win your trust back, or die trying."
We fall asleep like that. Together against whatever's coming.
And for the first time since her confession, I let myself hope that maybe we can survive this.
That maybe the betrayal doesn't have to be the end.
That maybe two broken people can build something from the wreckage.
Just maybe.