"I'm not a bear," he mutters, though he doesn't let go. He shifts, burying his face in the crook of my neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below my ear. "And you aren't cold. You're just impatient."
"I have things to do," I say, a small, reluctant smile touching my lips. "What time are we meeting that detective today?"
Mikhail grunts, his hand sliding down my hip, his warm palm resting against my skin. "Miller? In the early afternoon. He’s retired Bureau. He doesn't have any ties to my father or yours. If there’s an active trust fund or a utility bill under Verona Holdings, he’ll have the exact house number by noon."
I turn in his grip, rolling onto my back to look at him. His dark hair is a messy tangle, his blue eyes half-closed and soft. He looks younger like this, the hard, defensive lines of his face smoothed by sleep.
"You really found him?" I ask, my hand coming up to touch his bruised jaw, fingers tracing the purple edge of the skin.
"I told you I would," he says, his gaze locking onto mine with steady, unblinking intensity. "I don't leave jobs half-finished. Especially not this one."
"Thank you," I whisper.
Mikhail reaches up, his fingers sliding into my hair, pulling my head down until our lips are inches apart. "Don't thank me yet. We haven't got him back. But when we do, we’re going to have a very long conversation about how many more of these little monsters we’re going to put in this house."
I let out a soft, breathless laugh, my face heating up. "You’re very arrogant."
"I'm efficient," he mumbles, his mouth closing over mine in a slow, sweet kiss that tastes of morning and quiet safety.
We stay in bed for another twenty minutes, the banter quiet and easy—a small sanctuary of warmth before the storm. But we both know the clock is ticking. My father is expecting the warehouse locations. The trap has to be set.
I get dressed in a simple dark sweater, my hair pulled back into a loose bun. Mikhail is already waiting by the door, dressed in a sharp charcoal suit that hides his bandaged ribs, though his movements are still a bit stiff. He looks at me, his eyes tracking the line of my jaw, before wrapping his hand around mine. His grip is rough and completely solid.
"Ready?" he asks.
"Ready," I say.
We walk down the quiet staircase. Stefan nods respectfully as we pass him at the front door. Outside, the morning air is crisp andcool against my cheeks, the sun breaking watery through gray clouds.
The burner phone in my coat begins to vibrate.
A sharp, violent jolt of panic hits my chest.
I freeze on the gravel. Mikhail stops beside me, his grip tightening instantly as he senses my tension.
"Is it him?" he asks, his voice dropping.
"Yeah," I whisper. I pull the cheap phone out, my hand shaking as I press the receiver to my ear. "Papa."
"You really thought you were clever, Irina," Boris’s voice is a cold, oily purr over the line, carrying a flat, terrifying certainty that makes my knees weak.
"I don't know what you mean," I say, trying to keep the practiced panic in my voice, though the terror in my throat is suddenly very real. "I gave you the Newark codes. My husband is furious. He’s been on the phone all morning trying to figure out how the leak happened."
"Do you take me for a fool, child?" Boris snaps, his tone turning sharp as a razor. "Did you really think I would send my trucks to a warehouse on Ferry Street without verifying the perimeter first? My spotters saw Konstantin’s men setting up the snipers three hours ago."
My breath catches in my throat, my vision instantly tunneling. He knows it was a trap. "Papa, please," I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth. "It wasn't me. Mikhail... he must have changed the codes. He’s paranoid."
"Silence!" Boris roars. "I am done."
"Don't touch him," I hiss, my stubbornness entirely vanishing, replaced by a raw, desperate maternal instinct that rips my chest open. "Please, Papa. He’s just a child. He has nothing to do with this."
"He has everything to do with this," Boris says, his voice dropping to a quiet, clinical whisper. "He’s sitting right in front of me, Irina. He’s eating pancakes. And my associate, Sergei, is standing directly behind his chair. Do you want to hear what a suppressed nine-millimeter sounds like over a telephone, Irina? Because if you or Mikhail take one step toward Alpine, or if I see a single guard near my estate, Sergei will pull the trigger. Do you believe me?"
My legs give out completely.
I collapse onto the gravel, my knees scraping the sharp stones. I hyperventilate, gasping for air as a blind, absolute terror takes over.
"I believe you," I scream into the phone, my voice cracking as tears stream down my face. "I believe you! Please, just don't hurt him. Don't let Sergei do it. I’ll do whatever you want. Anything."
