I stare at the message again, and the part of me that used to freeze in place tries to take control. I push it down.
“We do it,” I say.
Ethan’s eyes hold mine. “If you’re doing it, we do it clean.”
“I’m not staying in this apartment waiting for her to decide when I’m allowed to breathe,” I reply, and my voice doesn’t shake because I don’t let it.
He nods once. “Okay. We pick the location.”
We pick a bar in Lower Manhattan that’s loud enough to cover conversation, busy enough to hide faces, and ordinary enough that no one remembers anyone the next day. The chairs are uncomfortable, the fries are bad, and the bathrooms are always crowded, which means there are witnesses and movement and noise, and that’s what I want.
Ethan doesn’t come with me.
He tries at first, because he always tries, and I shut it down.
“You can’t be visible,” I tell him while we sit in the car a block away. “Not across the street, not in a corner, not at the bar pretending you’re just a guy with a drink, because she knows your face and she’ll feel it.”
His stare is sharp. I can feel him wanting to push back, but he doesn’t, because he’s learned that the fastest way to lose me is to treat my fear like weakness.
“I’m not leaving you uncovered,” he says.
“I’m covered,” I reply. “Your people are in place, and you’re going to respect the fact that I’m the one who gets her talking.”
He breathes in through his nose, then lets it out. “You’re wearing the wire.”
I tap my waistband under my coat. “It’s on.”
“You check it twice,” he says.
“I already did.” I keep my tone factual, because if I let it turn into emotion, we’ll both get stuck there.
Ethan nods, then lifts his phone and speaks quietly. “Harrison, she goes in alone. No visible tails. Keep distance, and stay off her sightline.”
Harrison answers immediately. “Understood.”
Ethan looks back at me. “Check-in every seven minutes.”
“I heard you,” I say, and I hate that it makes me feel like a child, but I don’t fight it. Rules keep my thoughts from sprinting ahead of my body.
“You don’t leave without the check-in,” he repeats.
“I won’t,” I say, and I mean it.
He watches me for a second. The fear in him is quiet, but it’s there, and it makes something in my chest soften even as my spine stays straight.
“This ends tonight,” he says.
“It starts tonight,” I correct. “Victoria’s still out there.”
His mouth tightens. “I know.”
He lets me out a block away, and he stays in the car, and I don’t look back, because looking back is how you start bargaining with yourself.
Inside, the bar is dim and loud and full. I pick a booth toward the back where I can see the door without looking like I’m guarding it. I keep my bag on the seat beside me with the strap looped around my wrist, and I stop myself from touching the wire again, because nerves are readable.
Sabrina is already there.
She looks like she stepped out of a brand campaign and into a place that doesn’t deserve her, and she’s using the contrast like a weapon. Her hair is longer, her face is sharper, and her smile is too smooth for the setting.