Sergei
She leaves my bed before seven.
I hear her tiptoe out of the room. I pretend to be asleep. She’s struggling to come to terms with things. Last night changed everything. We both know it, but neither of us will acknowledge it—yet.
The shower turns on in the upstairs bathroom. I stare at the ceiling and picture her naked and wet. There is so much I want to do and show her. So much I can do to that sweet little body. I want to make her feel good and continue to show her not all men take without giving something in return.
I get up and get ready for my day. When I make it to the kitchen, she’s already gone to class.
After getting my coffee, I head to my office.
My brothers assured me Miami and Vegas are fine.
I can focus on the situation here. They will be ready to step in should things with Yuri go sideways.
Marrying Sofia stopped nothing. Yuri’s still positioning himself to make his move.
My brothers are ready to send men to help combat anything Yuri might try.
I will defeat him. He will die or he will go back to Moscow and never step foot on American soil again.
Those are his options.
Kirill walks in without knocking.
"We have something," he says.
“We always have something.”
He drops the usual folder on my desk, but he’s holding a picture.
“This is not the usual something.”
He sits down. I know Kirill almost better than I know myself. Something is wrong.
“What’s that?” I nod at the picture he still isn’t showing me.
He sighs, leans forward and drops it on my desk face up.
I stare down at the photo of my wife.
She’s in line at a coffee shop on campus. Yesterday. I recognize the outfit she has on. I almost smile at the ugly combat boots.
I scan the photo and spot Nelson about twenty feet away. He’s got earbuds in, a backpack slung over his shoulder and sunglasses on. He looks like any other young person on campus.
Does the person taking the photo believe she’s alone? Is that an advantage or disadvantage? The picture is focused on her, but I know two other men are there. I doubt they blend nearly as well. The photographer would have seen them.
“Turn it over,” Kirill says.
I do.
She takes her coffee with chocolate creamer. She only studies with her hair up. She sits in the last row so she can see every exit. You thought watching her made her yours. It just made her a target I already have sights on. Step away.
No signature. No need for one.
I set the photograph down.
I look at it staring back at me. She holds the strap of her bag in a tight fist. The bag with her weapons. But there’s something different.
She’s not quite as stiff. Her guard is down. She’s got the usual earbuds in, but I wonder if she’s actually listening to music. Her other hand would normally be sitting at her waist, ready to grab the knife in her pocket.
It’s not.
She’s looking at her fucking phone. She knows better.
This is my fault.
I’ve assured she is safe, and this has allowed her to relax.
My protection is a liability. I’ve dulled her sharp edges in a week’s time.
I sit back in my chair, forcing myself to look at it the way I would look at any other target.
Posture. Awareness. Environment.
She used to scan everything. I watched her do it a hundred times before she ever knew I existed. She moved like someone who understood exactly how fragile life was. Someone who expected it to be taken from her at any moment.
Now she’s looking at her phone.
My jaw tightens.
Comfort is a luxury people like us don’t get to have. Not for long. Not without consequence.
I did that.
I gave her a fortress. Not like her father’s home. There are no enemies within my gates. Guards she doesn’t see. A bed she can sleep in without a weapon under her pillow. I gave her quiet.
And in a matter of days, she started to believe it.
My eyes drop back to the photo. Her expression is softer than I’ve ever seen it in public. There’s no tension in her shoulders. No calculation in her stance.
She looks…normal.
That’s the problem.
Normal people don’t survive in this world.
I drag a hand down my face and exhale slowly, forcing the anger back into something usable. I changed the conditions and expected her instincts to stay the same.
That’s not how this works.
Yuri didn’t take the shot.
He took the picture.
That’s worse.
And now I have to decide whether I let her feel safe for one more day…or remind her exactly what kind of world she’s living in.
“Where was this found?” I ask.
He looks uncomfortable. “It was delivered to one of the warehouses. Hers.”
“You intercepted?”
He shrugs. Sofia doesn’t need to know I’ve moved men to keep an eye on things. She’s capable, but the operation she’s trying to take over is far bigger than she knows.
We’ll talk about that one day.
For now, I need to focus on the real threat.
He had a man close enough to touch her, and he took a photograph instead.
That was a choice. He wanted me to see the photograph. He wanted me to understand what he was communicating: I can get to her. I chose not to. This time.
Yuri, who has been in this city long enough to build a network and patient enough to wait for the right pressure point, has apparently decided that the pressure point is her fear.
He thinks she's a twenty-one-year-old woman with more inheritance than spine, and that given a clear exit, she'll take the door and stop being inconvenient.
He doesn't know her.
This is his first miscalculation. There will be others.
The obvious move is not to tell her. Keep her insulated. Keep her moving through her days not knowing how close the threat is sitting. Last night flashes through my mind. Those tears. Tears of relief. She felt safe.
I can’t take that from her.
I have done this in some form for years. It's efficient. It keeps her functional. I can keep her safe.
“More guards,” I say. “But I don’t want her to know.”
“I’m going to need to move some things around. We’ve already upped security at the dock. I assumed that’s where he would try to make a move.”
“He’s after her—not me.”
He gets to her, and he gets to me. He knows it. And that makes me want to kill him twice.
If I tell her, she responds.
If I don't tell her, she might find out another way, and then I'm not just dealing with Yuri's next move, I'm dealing with Sofia's legitimate fury on top of it.
I pick up the photograph.
"Give it to her," I say.
Kirill is quiet for a moment. "I'm sorry?"
“I need her to know he’s watching.”
“Isn’t this something you should handle?”
“No. Have it delivered to the warehouse as intended.” I lean back in my chair and contemplate my decision. “This does two things. We find out if she’s being given all the information. And we’ll know if she’s ready to fight.”
"She'll panic," he says.
"No she won't."
"She might."
"She won't." I've seen her panic once, or something near it, and it looked nothing like how most people imagine panic looks on someone. It looked like stillness.
"She'll be angry,” he says.
“She should be. I want her pissed. I want her fighting back.”
"You're testing her," he says.
"I'm trusting her." The distinction matters. I mean it. "There's a difference."
"Is there."
"If I intercept every threat before it reaches her, she’s going to become complacent. I can't run her operation for her. I won't." I lean forward. "And I can't tell her what to do with this. If I hand it to her with instructions, it's management. She has to make her own call."
Kirill is quiet.
"What do you think she does?" he asks.
I think about it.
"She gets angry," I say. "She thinks about her next move just like she has been since Yuri showed up. Before that. She chose to marry me because she recognized the strategy.”
He flashes a smile. “You respect her.”
“I do.”
I think he thought I would deny it.
"Do you trust her?" he asks.
Now that’s a difficult question. I rub my jaw and consider the answer.
I trust her to be exactly who she is. I trust her to make decisions that she thinks are right. I might not agree with those decisions. I have to be prepared to let her be wrong once in a while or this doesn't work. Any of it. The marriage, the alliance and whatever is building between us.
“As much as I trust any ally,” I answer.
He knows what that means. “And if you can no longer trust her?”
A feeling I’m unfamiliar with sours my stomach. Dread. Worry. Because if I can’t trust her, she cannot be my ally.
Or my wife.
And she’s already in my house. There’s only one way someone leaves my inner circle.
And that’s what scares me—hesitation. I’ve never had to think twice about removing a problem. But I know I could never kill her. I don’t even think I could order the hit.
That makes her a much bigger problem than I expected.
When I don’t answer, he gets to his feet and points at the folder. “Nothing new or exciting in there.”
“Good.”
He walks out, and I’m left alone to deal with the fallout of his delivery. I know what I need to do. And I don’t want to do it.
That makes me weak.
I think of those tears. Hurt and anger keeps her sharp. Being sharp keeps her alive.
And if she’s pissed at me, she’s not going to share my bed. I’m a dick because that’s what I’m thinking about. I’m addicted to her body. My buntarka. There are so many things I want to do with and to her. Things I want her to do to me.
My sexual appetite will have to be put on hold. I pride myself on my supreme control. This will be the strongest test of that control.
I turn back to the folder and open it. The Irish. The tedious, predictable Irish.
These are the things I can deal with.