"You wait. You accept whatever consequences come. And you hope that when the dust settles, there's something left to salvage." He starts to close the door, then pauses. "And Valerie? If you really love him, you'll respect whatever decision he makes. Even if it destroys you."
The door closes. Locks. And I'm alone again.
Hours pass. Mikhail brings food like he promised—soup, bread, water. I eat mechanically, tasting nothing.
Try to sleep. Can't. Just lie on the cot staring at the ceiling, mind replaying everything.
Lev's face when I confessed. The rage. The hurt underneath.
His hands on my throat. The moment I thought he'd actually kill me.
The cold emptiness when he looked at me in his office. Like I was already dead. Already gone. Already nothing.
And Mila.
God, Mila.
She'll wake up tomorrow, and I'll be gone. Elena will tell her some lie about family emergencies. She'll ask when I'm coming back.
Never, baby. I'm never coming back.
The thought breaks something in me that was already cracked.
I curl into a ball on the cot and let myself cry. Not the desperate, terrified crying from earlier. Just quiet tears for everything I'm losing.
For Lev, whom I fell for despite knowing better.
For Mila, who trusted me and deserved so much more.
For the life I built here, that was all based on lies but felt more real than anything I'd ever had.
Chapter eighteen
Lev
"Her mother is at 2247 Cortland Avenue. Third-floor apartment. Two of Patrick's men watching the building, rotating shifts every eight hours."
Mikhail's pointing at building schematics spread across my desk. It's 12:15 AM. I haven't slept. Haven't stopped moving since Valerie made that call to Patrick.
"And her brother?"
"Pier 47, third warehouse from the north end. Exactly where Valerie said. Two guards inside, medical equipment visible through the windows. Someone's keeping him alive." He taps another image. "But barely. Thermal imaging shows he's not moving much."
Internal bleeding. Broken bones. Weeks of torture.
The kid is seventeen. A college student whose only crime was having a father stupid enough to work for Patrick O'Rourke.
Using innocents as leverage is unforgivable.
That's why I'm doing this. Not for Valerie, not for redemption, not for forgiveness.
I'm doing it because Patrick's methods are cruel. Because using civilians creates loose ends. Because the Bratva has rules, and terrorizing families falls outside acceptable parameters.
That's what I tell myself.
"Extraction teams?" I ask.
"Ready. Yaroslav will take the mother. Four men, unmarked vehicles, in and out in under five minutes. Viktor handles the brother—medical team standing by, trauma surgeon on call at the safe house."