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Ivan Besov’s body washed up on the shore of the river when the ice melted, just like Alex had predicted. The police opened an investigation when it became known that Stefanov had placed a price on the assassin’s head, but it was closed due to a lack of evidence. The explosion at Stefanov’s house was declared an accident due to a gas leak. I can only assume Alex’s influence played a role in the speedy resolution of both cases.
Lena was fired. Alex made sure everyone knew she’d poisoned Dania, but he left out the finer details of the conspiracy. With that stain on her reputation, the only work she could find was doing laundry in a prison. For such an eternal snob, washing the sheets of the lower class she despises must’ve been her worst nightmare come true. A few weeks later, she fell down the stairs and broke her neck. The witnesses said she slipped because the floor was wet, but I suspect Mikhail had a hand in her untimely death. At least I hope it was Mikhail. I can’t entirely rule out my husband’s hand in this—a thought that should keep me up at night but strangely doesn’t.
As for Dania, her father arranged a marriage to an old oligarch, a man who keeps her under his thumb. Eventually, she may still take over his business, but for now, she must deal with her father working closely with Alex, the man she’s come to despise.
“Ready to go?” Alex asks.
When I turn my face, he’s studying me with those piercing blue eyes, like I catch him doing so often. “Are you?”
“Yes,” he says.
The word carries quietly on the breeze. It’s soft, tranquil. The undertone of torment that was present when Alex told me about how his parents died is no longer audible in his voice. There’s still sadness, but underneath the sorrow lies a tone of acceptance.
I study him back with the same intensity. The lines around his eyes are tight with awareness. He’s eternally vigilant, but there are also times when he lets down his guard completely. Such as in bed.
“What?” he asks gently, a smile plucking at his lips as he brushes a wisp of hair from my cheek with his thumb.
“You’re ridiculously handsome.” And I’m giddily happy.
He chuckles. “You must be the only one who thinks that.”
He’s wrong. He’s not handsome in a conventional way, true, but I’m not referring only to the strong features of his face and to the muscles bulging under his clothes. I’m talking about what’s inside, about the man I’ve gotten to know. He’s dangerous. Lethal. But he’s also trustworthy and protective. He’s a good husband, not only supporting my career as a registered nurse, but also encouraging me to complete my Doctor of Nursing Practice degree. He accepts my friends, and he loves my mom as if she were his own.
He searches my eyes. “Sometimes,” he says softly, “I have to touch you to be sure you’re real.” He accompanies the words with action, gripping my hand tightly in both of his palms.
What happened to me has left a mark on him. I’m long since over the trauma of getting shot, both physically and emotionally, but he’s still waking up in the middle of the night, sweating with nightmares.
Going on tiptoes, I kiss his lips. “I’m here.”
The blue of his eyes darkens, the fierce intensity of his attention solely focused on me. “Yes, and you’re not going anywhere.”
“Nowhere,” I agree. “Not without you.”
He relaxes at the promise, the worry lines on his face smoothing out and the hard set of his jaw softening.
“Come,” he says, tugging on my hand and turning toward the car where Yuri waits.
Not far behind Yuri, an entourage of guards is stationed. Their formal black jackets conceal guns and knives. More weapons are hidden under the floorboards of their cars. Alex never lets me go anywhere without at least six bodyguards, but I’ve grown used to them. Igor now reports to me. Well, sort of. He’s the head of my personal detail, but he still answers to my husband.
“I’m glad you brought me here,” I say as Alex grips my elbow to steady me when my heel gets stuck in the thick carpet of grass.
“I’m glad you came with me,” he replies.
As if I would’ve missed this.
I understand now why he commissioned the statue in his garden in New York City. It’s a replica of his parents’ gravestone.
At the bottom of the slope, he stops to inspect my sandal. Going down on his haunches, he grasps my ankle in his large hand, his fingers overlapping around the circumference, and wipes away the mud and tuft of grass stuck to my heel. I grip his shoulder for balance, waiting patiently while he takes care of me. I’ve learned that he needs this. He needs to provide, protect, and comfort. In turn, he lets me do the same for him.
