Chapter 13 – Ellie
I hate how naturally I’ve adapted to this life. I hate that I now notice the subtle signals—the coded glances, the unspoken hierarchies, the way everyone moves in rhythm with rules they barely admit exist. Most of all, I hate that I feel a flicker of pride when Mike trusts my insight.
It’s been three days since the warehouse raid, and Mike has brought me fully into the fold.
He told me everything he found about Sergei—the offshore transfers, the suspicious access logs, the perfectly clean execution of the raid.
And now we’re running the bait operation I designed, watching, waiting, letting the pieces fall into place.
The operation began quietly, almost invisibly.
False shipment data was seeded through controlled channels, each version subtly altered for the recipient.
Every modification carried a digital marker—tiny, almost imperceptible signatures that only we could trace.
If the information leaked, we would know exactly who handled it.
I spent hours helping design the variations, calculating what Sergei might notice, what would trigger him to act. The work was meticulous, precise—the kind of work I’d done countless times in my academic life, but now the stakes weren’t papers or conference presentations. They were lives.
We already know who it is. Sergei. Everything points to him. But we’re letting him have this last benefit of the doubt, letting the bait sit like a trap, waiting for him to make the first move.
Today, though, we’re attending another social luncheon, and Mike had to cajole me into going. I can feel my chest tightening as the car moves through the city streets. I know I’ll be seeing Raelyn and the other wives there, and that’s the only reason I agreed to come.
Sergei is driving, oblivious to the fact that we’re already onto him. He talks quietly to Mike about mundane details—security shifts, warehouse staff. Mike responds in a carefree manner, not giving anything away.
Mike and I sit in the backseat, our hands intertwined. His thumb brushes over mine, steady and reassuring, and I feel my chest relax. These past few days, we’ve grown closer, closer than I ever imagined possible. And honestly…I’ve been so happy. Though I’ve never said it aloud, not once.
He’s great. Attentive. Loving. Caring. Never yells.
Never forces. He’s exactly the man I didn’t think existed—the man I didn’t think could ever be mine.
And sitting here, feeling the warmth of his hand, I realize how much I’ve come to trust him, how much I’ve come to lean on him—not just for safety, but for everything.
The city blurs past the window as I press my other hand against his leg. The warmth spreads through me, grounding me, even as a quiet tension coils in my stomach.
When we arrive at the event, Mike turns to me just before we alight, as he always does. His gaze is steady, serious, but soft at the edges.
“You don’t have to talk to anyone if you don’t want to,” he says quietly. “Just staying by my side is enough.”
I laugh lightly, teasing, letting my voice carry just enough for him to hear. “You just like having me beside you, don’t you?”
He smirks faintly, almost sheepishly, but there’s that subtle intensity in his eyes I’ve come to recognize—the promise that no matter what happens, he’ll have my back.
Rolling my eyes, I shrug. “I’ll be fine. I’m going to mingle with Raelyn and the others. You shouldn’t worry about me.”
He gives me that half-smile, the one that hints he knows me better than I know myself. I glance away, pretending nonchalance, but I can feel his eyes following me as I step into the crowd.
I don’t find Raelyn immediately. Instead, I spot Anya moving toward us—a swirl of floral perfume, elegance, and calculated confidence. My stomach tightens. The air seems to shift, subtle but undeniable.
Anya stops beside us. Her eyes sweep over me, just long enough for me to feel the scrutiny before she turns to Mike. “Hello, Mike,” she says softly, wrapping her arms around him and pressing her cheek against his chest.
Mike freezes. His hand tightens instinctively on my arm as his panicked eyes flick to mine. I almost laugh at his reaction, knowing it’s leftover trauma from the way I reacted the last time.
He pushes Anya away from him, gentle enough to not cause a scene. But that’s not my style. I smile at her, then step closer, loud enough for the next table to hear, and say, “Please refrain from touching my husband like that next time, Anya. It’s very inappropriate for a lady. Show some decency.”
A subtle hush ripples through the room. All eyes are on her. I watch the heat rise in her face, the tight set of her jaw, and the flicker of awareness that she’s been called out. I can see the disappointed and curious gazes of others sweep toward her.
Mike lets out a soft breath I hadn’t realized he was holding. He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he slides his hand into mine, firm and grounding, and leads me away.
“When you do things like that,” he murmurs, his voice low, almost a growl, “you make me want to do dirty things to you.”
I feel heat surge through me at his words, my stomach twisting. I open my mouth to respond, but before I can, soft hands wrap around mine from the side.
“Ellie!”
I turn, startled, to see Elara, Roman Rusnak’s wife, beaming as she pulls me into a quick hug.
“That was badass,” she says, her voice half-teasing, half-admiring.
I laugh, letting the nervous adrenaline from the confrontation with Anya slide off me. “I’ve been searching for all of you. Was hoping to find some allies in this place.”
Elara grins and points to a table in the corner of the room. “We’re all over there. Come on, let’s sit. You need to catch your breath after that stunt.”
I glance back at Mike, whose hand still lingers near mine for a moment before he finally releases it, his eyes dark with something I can’t name—desire, amusement, maybe pride. I step back slightly.
“I’ll go with Elara,” I say, my tone light but confident. “You can go handle your meeting.”
He leans down quickly and presses a gentle kiss to my cheek. The warmth lingers, like a silent promise. “Be careful,” he murmurs. “And don’t get into too much trouble.”
I smirk, brushing his comment aside. “No promises.”
We part, and I follow Elara. The moment I reach the table, I’m greeted by Raelyn, Sienna, and Vivian, all radiant in their gowns. Their laughter fills the space, and for the first time since the luncheon began, I feel some of the tension leave me.
I hug them in turn, finally letting myself relax. Elara leans in conspiratorially and tells them what happened with Anya, emphasizing my little confrontation. They all burst into laughter, eyes sparkling with mischief.
Raelyn leans back, still chuckling. “I’d do the same if I were you, Ellie. Anya has it coming; mark my words.”
Vivian tuts, shaking her head but smiling. “I used to think the men were the possessive and crazy ones…but clearly, they have no idea. We, the women, are far more possessive—and far crazier.”
We all laugh again, a warm, cathartic sound. The tension of the earlier confrontation melts further. Raelyn picks up the bottle and pours our drinks, each of us catching her eye as she hands them out.
“To surviving the Rusnak men,” Raelyn says, raising her glass with a grin.
“To that,” I echo, clinking my glass with theirs. My drink sparkles like liquid ruby, and the cheers are loud enough to draw a few curious glances from nearby tables, but we don’t care.
We spend the rest of the night swapping stories about our marriages, laughing over the ridiculous, the romantic, and the downright absurd. For a few hours, the weight of the Rusnak world lifts, replaced by warmth, camaraderie, and an almost intoxicating sense of normalcy.
Finally, the men wrap up their meeting, and the event host announces that the luncheon is about to officially begin. Since we each have our assigned tables, we reluctantly part, exchanging quick hugs and whispered promises.
“Next week,” Raelyn whispers, “our group chat plans must become a reality. Drinks, shopping, and everything girly. No kids.”
The other women say, “Amen.”
I nod, smiling. “Well, I don’t have kids yet, but absolutely.”
I weave through the crowd to Mike’s table, and the moment I sit, his arms wrap around me in a firm, protective hold.
“You look happy,” he murmurs into my hair, his voice low enough that only I can hear it.
I roll my eyes, pretending to brush it off.
He leans closer, resting his chin near my shoulder, ignoring the host’s drone as he whispers, “Really? Are you happy, Ellie?”
I glance around. “Mike…we’re in public.”
“I don’t care,” he says, his eyes locking onto mine. “Tell me. Do I make you happy?”
I smile, my heart squeezing. “Yes! Happy?”
He grins, the kind of laugh that shakes his shoulders and reaches his eyes. “Yes.”
Servers glide between tables with trays of sparkling water, fine wines, and carefully plated hors d’oeuvres. The clink of glasses and soft murmurs of conversation fill the room.
At our table, the first course arrives. A delicate salad of mixed greens, roasted cherry tomatoes, and a drizzle of balsamic reduction sits on fine porcelain plates. Mike guides my hand to the fork with a slight smile, as if we’re performing a secret ritual only we know.
I take a bite, the crisp lettuce and tangy dressing waking my senses. Around us, people are exchanging formalities and laughing, but I’m not paying attention. I steal a glance at Mike, watching him politely slice his grilled salmon, eyes scanning the room even as he tastes each bite.
“Is it good?” I ask, causing him to tilt his head slightly toward me.
He nods then, smiling. “Yes…perfect.”
The main course arrives—tender filet mignon resting atop a bed of truffle-infused mashed potatoes, garnished with fresh herbs and a roasted vegetable medley. I’m about to pick up my knife when a deafening gunshot shatters the delicate calm of the room.
Glass explodes from the overhead window. The bullet lands squarely on my plate, sending shards of porcelain clattering to the floor. The sharp metallic ping echoes through the room.
The room erupts. Guests scream and duck under tables. Chairs topple. Crystal glasses shatter. The air fills with a panic-laden chaos of voices and movement. Waiters dive for cover, trays of untouched food clattering to the floor.
Mike reacts instantly. His body moves over mine with a speed I’ve never seen outside of his controlled operations. He shields me with his arms, chest pressed against my back, as his eyes scan the room like a predator.
But it’s a sniper shot; they would never catch who did it.
Around us, his brothers and guards are springing into action. Sergei’s face is tense but focused, coordinating protective positions. Men with earpieces fan out toward windows and exits. Some guests are being ushered to safer corners of the hall, while others are frozen, unsure what to do.
I press myself against Mike, my heart hammering, feeling the shock and adrenaline surge through me. He doesn’t let go. One hand curls around my waist while the other rests lightly on the back of my neck, keeping me close and controlled.
“Ellie,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear, “you’re safe. I’ve got you.”
I nod, unable to speak. My mind replays the sound of the gunshot, the shattered glass, the chaos erupting around us. Every instinct screams danger, but the solidity of his body against mine is a lifeline.
Without a word, he guides me toward the exit, using his body as a shield. I follow his lead, stepping quickly but carefully, trusting him entirely. Moments later, he ushers me into the backseat of our car and climbs in after me. Sergei slips into the driver’s seat, the engine roaring to life.
Through the window, I catch sight of Raelyn and the other women. Their expressions are a mixture of shock and concern as they watch our car speed away from the venue. I feel a pang of guilt.
“I didn’t say goodbye to them,” I murmur, the words catching in my throat.
Mike turns his head toward me. There’s something in his eyes—apology, frustration, and something else I can’t name. He opens his mouth, pauses, then simply pulls me closer into his arms. His cheek rests against my hair, his voice a low, intense whisper.
“I’m sorry, Solnste,” he says. “I should have kept you safe. I failed you…but I swear, I will make sure nothing ever touches you anymore.”
I press my hand against his chest, feeling his heart hammering as loudly as mine. “It’s not your fault,” I whisper. “It’s not your fault at all.”
But he shakes his head ever so slightly, lips brushing the top of my hair. “It’s my job. My life revolves around keeping you safe. And I almost lost you. That…is never going to happen again.”
We arrive home shortly after. The tension in the air is almost tangible. As soon as we step into our suite, Mike doesn’t wait for me to speak.
“That was a warning sniper shot,” he says, his voice low but sharp, pacing the room.
“They didn’t plan to kill you, Ellie. Or you’d be gone.
They just wanted to let you know they’re on to you.
” He stops, glances at me, his eyes burning with intensity.
“This no longer feels like it’s about me.
I have a feeling you have something they want. ”
I frown, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m just an ordinary linguist. What could they possibly want from me?”
Mike runs a hand through his hair, jaw tight. He’s thinking, calculating, and every second of silence stretches unbearably.
Then his phone rings. He glances at it, frowns slightly, and swipes to answer. His tone is clipped, businesslike. I catch only snippets: “Yes…I understand…okay. Thank you.” The call ends as abruptly as it began.
I hesitate for a moment, then ask, “What was that?”
“It’s Timofey.” Mike locks eyes with me, his expression unreadable but fierce. “Our bait operation has yielded fruit. One of the falsified shipment routes was ambushed, exactly as you predicted. The version leaked matches the file sent exclusively to Sergei.”
My stomach tightens. “So…he did it?”
Mike nods slowly. “Yes.”
“What are you going to do?”
He scoffs. “They came after you, Ellie. That’s the line I can’t cross. There’s only one thing I can do now.”