Chapter 1
LEO
The coffee shop was louder than it needed to be for such an early morning.
Steam hissed, cups knocked against metal, and someone laughed too brightly near the window while people chatted in small groups around their tables as if they hadn’t yet learned the world could turn on you without warning.
That the person you expected to grow old beside could leave you behind, struggling to exist in a home that used to be your refuge but was slowly becoming the very thing that suffocated you.
I used to complain about the noise at the coffee shop so much that my husband—late husband—had surprised me with a top-of-the-line espresso machine for our kitchen.
He’d presented it like a peace offering, then bent over the counter for me to express my gratitude while it ran its first cycle, promising me I’d never need to set foot in a café again.
Bradley used to enjoy buying me things. Thoughtful things. Excessive things. It was one of the things I’d loved about him.
That machine sat untouched now. The day he died was the last morning I’d used it.
A week later, I’d started coming to Ground Theory again.
It was a modern, industrial-style café with exposed brick, concrete floors, and long wooden tables meant for people who liked to work in public spaces.
The baristas moved efficiently, and the espresso was consistent.
The place drew hospital staff, college students, and professionals alike.
The coffee was top tier, the space clean, and most importantly, it was a place where I could sit alone for fifteen minutes and get lost in the hum of other people’s lives before going to work.
I now welcomed the very chatter that I’d so hated in the past as it meant not being alone inside my head.
The hospital lounge offered endless cups of black coffee, but it tasted like burnt water, and I refused to begin my rounds with that in my system. When I didn’t have time to stop, I paid an off-shift orderly to grab one for me and tipped them enough to make it worth their trouble.
A good cup of coffee was nonnegotiable. Like most caffeine-addicted workaholics, I didn’t function properly without it.
“Large Americano, right?” The cute barista with a blonde ponytail swinging from the back of her cap blasted me with a smile.
I nodded. “Yes, and an apple tart, please.”
“Certainly. That’ll be…”
I reached into my coat for my wallet, fingers brushing leather before I pulled it free. Normally, I had my card ready before the barista even finished saying the total. Efficiency mattered to me, and routine steadied me.
This morning, I was distracted.
The black GMC truck had followed me from my driveway to the coffee shop. The third time this week. Other times he would have at least maintained a good distance from me to be subtle, but today he was on my tail. He wasn’t even pretending anymore, which meant he knew I couldn’t do anything about it.
And I hated him for that. For taking away my willpower the moment they coerced me into working with them to beat a man to death. One of the doctors had forwarded the barely recognizable mess of their victim to our group chat, and I hadn’t been able to eat solid food for a couple of days after that.
I’d seen all sorts of things in my time as a doctor with a specialism in internal medicine and yet had only come face-to-face recently with two of the worst things I’d ever witnessed: my husband’s body after he “jumped” from the high-rise office building where he worked and the body of the man who tried to push me to murder a patient, a Bratva Pakhan’s lover.
I’d done everything they asked, including getting the best medical help for Wren. If not for me, he would have died. But were they grateful? No. They still treated me like a threat.
A hand reached around me and tapped a black metal card against the machine, which beeped approval before I fully registered what was happening.
I know the shape of that hand.
It was larger than mine, broad across the knuckles, the veins prominent beneath the skin.
His fingers were long, thick, and calloused, with neatly trimmed, clean nails.
On the back of his right hand, a compass was inked in black lines.
Across the side of his middle finger, just above the heavy matte ring he wore there, the words “hell bent” were tattooed in calligraphy.
“I’ve got it,” Sergei said, his voice its usual disturbing calm. He had the deep, gravelly baritone of a man who didn’t talk much.
My pulse spiked as the scent of him reached me—dark spice layered over something clean and expensive. The barista glanced between us, eyebrows lifting with interest as the receipt printed.
“Well, that’s sweet,” she said, sliding the paper toward him. Then she grinned at me. “You’ve got a handsome guy buying your coffee this early? Someone’s about to have a good day.”
Out of habit, I twisted my wedding band. The barista’s eyes dropped to it, and color bloomed across her cheeks as she turned away quickly.
I stepped toward an empty table near the counter to wait for my name to be called, and Sergei followed.
He pulled out the chair across from me and sat as if this were an agreed-upon meeting rather than an intrusion.
It was too much to hope that he would pay for the coffee and apple tart, then disappear.
“I’m perfectly capable of paying for my own coffee,” I said, keeping my voice level as I slid my phone from my coat pocket.
“A thank-you would suffice.”
His expression was as unreadable as ever, calm, watchful, and infuriatingly neutral. Most people gave off something, but Sergei offered nothing. It was like speaking to a wall.
“Twelve dollars,” I said coolly, fiddling with my phone so I didn’t have to look at him anymore, “is hardly adequate compensation for the damage you’ve done to me.”
“I haven’t even touched you.”
The audacity of that statement drew my full attention away from the screen of my phone. “You don’t need to,” I said, my tone sharpening. “In your world, this may register as benign, but having a six-foot-two giant—”
“Six-four.”
“That isn’t the salient detail,” I said evenly. “Having a six-foot-four giant trail me for weeks, dismantle any illusion of privacy I possessed, and embed himself into every corner of my routine was not incidental. It was calculated intimidation on your part.”
I held his gaze, and he didn’t even blink.
“Congratulations, you succeeded. I have not had a single moment when I am not aware of your presence. Not one instance in which I can leave my home, enter my workplace, or stand in a public space without worrying about whether you are watching me. So don’t insult my intelligence by buying me coffee as if we’re on amicable terms.”
Silence settled between us, made more acute by the steam hissing behind the counter. If he held any remorse for what they’d done to me, there was no sign of it.
“Would it help if I said it’s not personal?”
“And exactly how does that change anything?” I straightened my spine and clasped my fingers on top of the table.
“I’ve done everything I was instructed to do.
I even helped to relocate Wren to a safer hospital.
What more do you people want from me, or are you going to pretend today is a coincidence? ”
“No.” His gaze didn’t waver. “You’re too smart to believe that.”
I blinked, taken aback by the…compliment? “Okay, then.” Rarely at a loss for words, I couldn’t seem to find the right ones to respond to him, so I fell silent.
“I’m here on behalf of Mr. Morozov.”
Of course.
Maxim Morozov.
Sergei was a loyal dog who was trained to be obedient to his master. He’d already demonstrated that he was willing to do the unthinkable to keep his boss safe. He had a one-track mind that always led back to Morozov’s safety, and my husband was just collateral damage for them.
“Mr. Morozov is grateful for your assistance in helping to save Wren.” Sergei reached into his coat, and I held my breath, not sure what to expect. Maybe a gun to eliminate me now that I’d given them everything they wanted.
It was a thick brown envelope.
“Because of your quick thinking and intervention, his husband is now expected to make a full recovery. We couldn’t have done that without you.”
“I was doing my job. That’s literally what I get paid for. To keep people alive.”
While he killed them.
“Nevertheless.” He stretched his hand across the table to place the envelope right in front of me. “His gratitude.”
I stared at it. I didn’t have to open the envelope to know what was inside. They were giving me money as payment.
As if saving a life were a transaction.
Or was he paying me for taking my husband away too soon? They thought I didn’t know what they’d done, but Morozov’s business partner, the one they’d murdered by beating him to a pulp, told me everything. I inhaled deeply, then let the breath out slowly to rein in my emotions.
Monsters.
They were all monsters.
“I do fine without blood money,” I said softly as I rose to my feet. “If you really want to show me gratitude for helping, stay away from me, the whole lot of you.”
“Leo.”
I should have kept walking. Every instinct told me to leave.
To refuse him the satisfaction of another second of my attention.
But walking away didn’t make these men disappear.
It only meant they followed. Although I had nothing more to offer them, they would never let me go until they were convinced I was no longer a threat.
I didn’t face him fully, just turned my head enough so he could see my profile.
“What about your coffee and apple tart?” he asked.
“I’ve lost my appetite.”
I didn’t wait for a response. The door chimed as I pushed through it, the morning air hitting my face sharper than before. I walked fast but refrained from running. Running implied fear, and I refused to give him that.
The sidewalk blurred past as I walked. I kept my shoulders squared, posture controlled, even as my pulse thudded behind my ears.
Don’t look back.