"That's it? Just noted?"
"What do you want me to say?" I turn to face him fully. "That I'm being stupid? That I should terminate her and move on? That I'm risking everything for sex and my daughter's happiness?"
"Are you?"
Yes. Probably. Almost certainly.
"I don't know anymore." I pour vodka, don't offer him any. "But I'm not stopping. Not yet."
He shakes his head but doesn't argue further. Just leaves with a warning. "When this blows up—and it will blow up—don't say I didn't warn you."
The door closes behind him, and I'm alone with the truth.
He's right. I'm sloppy, distracted, making choices with my cock and my heart instead of my brain.
But I can't stop.
Chapter thirteen
Valerie
"Higher, Valerie! Push me higher!"
Mila's laughter rings across the park, bright and carefree, and my chest tightens with how normal this feels.
Weeks ago, she barely spoke. Now she's a chatty seven-year-old who begs for park trips and ice cream, who holds my hand without hesitation, who calls my name when she wakes from nightmares instead of screaming into the void.
I push the swing higher, watching her dark curls fly behind her. "High enough,Cielo?"
She giggles at my terrible Russian pronunciation. "Papa says it better."
"Papa's had more practice."
Two of Lev's guards stand fifteen feet away—Sam and Juno, both covertly armed, scanning the park with professional laxity. A third patrols the perimeter. Overkill for a Tuesday afternoonplayground visit, but this is Lev's daughter. There's no such thing as too much security.
"Can we go on the slide now?" Mila's already scrambling off the swing before I answer, running toward the elaborate jungle gym with the kind of fearless energy only kids possess.
I follow, keeping her in sight, Juno shadowing me while Sam moves to a better vantage point.
The park is mostly empty—a couple of moms with toddlers on the far side, an old man feeding pigeons, a jogger doing laps on the path. Normal. Safe.
Mila reaches the top of the slide and waves at me. "Watch this!"
"I'm watching—"
Just then, a van suddenly appears out of nowhere.
Black. No plates. Screeching around the corner too fast, jumping the curb, barreling straight across the grass toward the playground.
Sam’s already moving, gun drawn, shouting in Russian.
Everything happens in seconds that stretch like hours.
The van's side door flies open. Men pour out—four, no five, all armed, moving with military precision toward Mila.
Oh hell. Ice snaps through my veins.
Please, don’t let this be real.