She doesn't flinch. Doesn't reach for her weapon. Doesn't even look afraid.
"Then why?" she asks. "Why bother doing all this?"
Because you are slowly driving me insane. Because the thought of Harrison's people putting a bullet in that brilliant mind of yours makes me want to burn the world down.
"Because someone needs to stop Harrison."
"That's not the real reason."
Perceptive little wolf.
I turn away from her, busying myself with putting away the first-aid supplies. "You should try to get some rest. It's late, and tomorrow we'll need to figure out our next move."
"You didn't answer my question."
"I answered it."
"You gave me an excuse. Not a reason."
She's not going to let this go.
I face her again, and the look in her eyes nearly undoes me. There's no fear there, no disgust. Just curiosity and something that looks dangerously like understanding.
"The reason," I say carefully, "is that you're not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"Another corrupt federal agent. Someone who could be bought or scared or eliminated if she got too close to the truth." I lean against the counter, studying her face. "Instead, I found a woman who's spent two years obsessively pursuing justice, even when it cost her personally. Even when everyone around her suggested she let the case go."
"You've been watching me."
"Yes."
"For how long?"
"Since you were assigned as the FBI point person for the Bratva cases. Two years."
Her eyes widened slightly. "Two years?"
Two years of making sure you stayed safe while you built your case. Two years of eliminating threats before they could reach you. Two years of falling for a woman who would arrest me without hesitation if she knew the whole truth.
"I needed to assess whether you were a threat to the families I protect."
"And your conclusion?"
"You're a threat to the wrong people."
She slides off the bar stool, moving to stand directly in front of me. This close, I can smell her shampoo, can see the gold flecks in her amber eyes, can count the freckles scattered across her nose like constellations.
"What families?" she asks quietly.
The moment of truth.
"Mila Morozov is my niece."
The words hit her like a physical blow. She steps back, hand going automatically to her weapon before she stops herself.
"Your niece."
