I collapse into the chair, head in my bloody hands, and let the reality crash over me.
I fell for her. Actually fell. Somewhere between watching her with Mila and feeling her in my arms, I stopped seeing her as a potential threat and started seeing her as mine.
And she was never mine. She was always his.
Eventually, the anger burns itself out. Leaves nothing but cold calculation and the need for answers.
I pull myself up. Wash the blood off my hands. Change into clean clothes.
Then I head to the basement.
It’s time to interrogate my prisoner.
The holding cell is exactly what it sounds like, concrete walls, steel door, a cot bolted to the floor. We use it for interrogations. For people who need convincing before they talk.
Valerie is curled on the cot, arms wrapped around herself, face blotchy from crying.
When I enter, she flinches. Presses herself against the wall like she can disappear into it.
I scoff, pull out the chair, and sit, studying her in silence.
She looks small. Broken. Nothing like the woman who stood between my daughter and a gun.
"We're going to have a conversation," I say finally. Voice cold. Clinical. "And you're going to tell me everything. No lies. No omissions. Complete truth. Understand?"
She nods frantically.
"How long have you been working for Patrick?"
"Since my father died almost three months ago." Her voice is hoarse, probably from screaming. "He told me my mother and brother’s lives depended on me completing the assignment my father failed to carry out."
"What did you pass him?"
"Guard rotations at first. Vehicle schedules. Property layouts. Nothing critical." She's shaking. "But he kept demanding more. Kept threatening Ethan when I didn't deliver fast enough."
This is everything she’s said before.
"When did you stop?"
"Two weeks ago. After the park. After I realized I—" She chokes on the words. "After I couldn't do it anymore."
"And Patrick's response?"
“The photos. The videos. The escalating violence against my brother. A seventy-two-hour deadline to send your complete schedule, or Ethan dies.”
I stand. Move to the table against the wall where interrogation tools wait. Pliers. Knives. Things designed to extract truth through pain.
I pick up the pliers. Let her see them. Let her imagine what I could do with them.
My fingers shake. Just slightly. Just enough that I have to grip harder to hide it.
Because part of me, some sick, twisted part, can’t hurt her. Still sees her as mine despite everything.
I hate that part of myself.
"Here's what's going to happen." I turn to face her, pliers in hand. "You're going to tell me everything Patrick knows. Every piece of intel you passed. Every conversation you had. Every plan he's made."
"Lev, please—"