The woman from the dacha. The crack in her voice. The way her eyes shattered when she realized the man she thought would help her was already cold meat. Pain. Betrayal. A flash of it sank teeth into me. It wasn’t regret. I don’t do regret. But it was close.
It wasn’t my job to ask questions. I just pull the trigger.
Still, her glassy, broken eyes wouldn’t leave my head. Not hers. Not Kira’s. All of them swirling in a fucking storm I couldn’t punch my way through.
And then I remembered.
My “initiation” test.
The last thing that cop said before I tortured him to death was that he was looking forthem. I couldn’t help wondering—was he circling the truth about Pakhan’s trafficking network too?
That night, I’d grabbed a folder from his apartment. I didn’t read it. But now I had a gut feeling he and the judge might’ve been connected.
The bathroom was thick with steam by the time I shut off the water. I stepped out into the heavy air, my skin damp and flushed from the heat. A towel wrapped low around my hips, I took a breath—deep and steady—trying to shake the noise in my head. It didn’t help. I had shit to do. That folder wasn’t going to open itself.
I opened the cabinet and reached for the folder inside, but the doorbell rang before my fingers could touch it.
I froze.
Nobody rang my bell. Ever.
It was midday—rain hammering against the windows, gray light leaking through the blinds—and no one should be at my door. I grabbed the gun off the counter out of habit and moved silently to the door.
Through the peephole, I saw her.
Kira. Soaked to the bone, mascara smudged, lips trembling. Her hair clung to her face in wet strands, and her eyes… fuck, her eyes were red, swollen, pleading.
I put the gun aside and opened the door. “Are you insane? Get in.”
She didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped in, dripping all over the hardwood. A small puddle gathered beneath her boots, spreading across the floorboards. Her arms were wrapped around herself, like she was trying to hold something in—or maybe keep herself from falling apart.
“Shouldn’t you be at school?” I asked, locking the door behind her.
She nodded. “Yeah.”
“Then how the fuck did you get here?”
Her voice was small. “I walked.”
I stared at her. “Youwhat?”
“I walked.”
“Jesus Christ. Malaya, that’s a thirty-minute walkwithoutheels—and you’re telling me you walked here inthis?” I gestured toward the ridiculous heels on her feet. “Do you have a death wish? Do you not realize who your father is? How many people would love to snatch you off the street and use you to get to him?”
She just shook her head. “I don’t care. I had to talk to you.”
I stared at her, furious and dumbfounded. “What if I wasn’t home?”
Her voice cracked, but her eyes didn’t waver. “Then I’d wait. Right here. Outside your door. However long it took.”
Fury licked at the edges of my ribs, but it melted the second I saw the way her hands were shaking.
I sighed and ran a hand through my damp hair. “You’re going to get fucking sick. Come on.”
I walked her to the bathroom, handed her a clean towel, and then went to the closet to pull out a fresh hoodie and sweats. They’d hang off her, but they were dry, and she clearly needed something.
“Here,” I said when I knocked and opened the bathroom door a crack. “Put these on. We’ll dry your clothes.”
