I take a circuitous route, making sure we're not being followed, before heading north out of the city. The safe house is about forty minutes outside Miami, in an old housing development that went bankrupt before it could finish building. We bought up the lots quietly, left the half-built houses to decay, and kept one of the finished ones near the back of the development for a safe house. To anyone else, the entire area looks abandoned, and it’s both isolated enough that no one will hear or see anything, but close enough that I can get back to the city quickly if necessary.
As I drive out of the city, the water lapping in the distance on the other side of my periphery, I let myself think beyond the immediate crisis of the moment.Who sent her?She wasn’t working alone, that much I’m sure of. Whether there’s some tie between her and the other attempted assassinations or not, she didn’t come up with the idea to try to kill me all on her own. Andwhat was the point? The endgame? What did her employer want after I was dead? Was it my father’s business, or my own, more personal plans that put a target on my back? Or was it personal in some way—someone who felt slighted by a business deal, a family member of someone we once killed… or something else entirely?
One of the downsides of organized crime, I reflect as I drive, is that there really are endless reasons I can imagine why someone might want me dead—or to get at my father by taking away his heir.
There’s another question too—why marry me first? The charade that she played was an elaborate one, with the engagement, wedding, honeymoon, and weeks of living together. She had ample opportunity to kill me before this.
Unless there was more to it. Unless she needed something from me first.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel at the thought that this was more than just an assassination—that she was a plant, a spy, someone meant to gather intel on me from the inside. The fact that she wanted me dead is bad enough, but my jaw tightens until I think my teeth might crack at the thought that the deception might have been that involved. Somehow, that feels even worse.
I glance over at her again. Asleep—or unconscious, really—with her guard down, she looks like the woman I've been falling for since she arrived at that dinner party. The sharp, intelligent, witty, courageous woman who I thought might be the match I never imagined I’d find. A partner worthy of me. A woman meant to be not only my wife, but my equal.
The kind of woman that a man like me doesn’t dream of finding.
Was any of it real? Did she ever want me at all? Feel anything for me?My hands tighten and twist on the steeringwheel again. I feel like I’m losing my mind. A few weeks ago, I would have laughed at the idea that any woman could have me this tied up in knots. But Sophia—Valentina—isn’t just any woman.
No matter what she says, no matter what the truth really is, I know that much for certain.
The safe house appears ahead, a dark silhouette against the night sky. It’s a single-story construction, a sprawling Florida-style home with a dark beige stucco exterior, hurricane-proof windows, and a low-angled roof. Palm trees dot the browning landscaping out front, and I know there’s a fenced pool out back, although we don’t do much to keep it up, much like the rest of the exterior. Someone comes out here every now and then to check for snakes and spiders and gators, but for the most part, we want it to look abandoned.
There are no neighbors out here. No prying eyes. No witnesses. Whatever happens between me and Valentina from here on out will stay between the two of us.
I pull into the garage, getting out to shut the door behind us before cutting the engine. For a moment, I slide back into the driver’s seat and sit in the darkness, listening to Valentina’s breathing, steeling myself for what comes next.
What comes next?I don’t have a plan. I couldn’t think that far ahead. Now that it’s here, I still can’t bring myself to.
Am I going to torture a woman I was falling in love with for answers?
I thought I was a brutal man. But it seems I’ve found my limit. My line.
Valentina stirs slightly, a small moan escaping her lips, and I can tell she’s starting to wake up.
Time's up.
I slide out of the driver's seat and circle around to the passenger side, opening her door just as her eyelids flutter. Herbody tenses immediately—the change is subtle, but I've spent enough time watching her to notice. She's awake now, assessing, planning. She’s also trying to make me think that she isn’t—her eyes are still hooded, her body mostly still.
"Don't," I warn her, my voice low and hard. "We both know how this ends if you try something." I hope she believes me. That my failure to kill her earlier doesn’t make me the boy who cried wolf every time from here on out.
Her eyes open slowly, meeting mine with a defiance that makes my blood heat despite everything. For a long moment, we just stare at each other, the gravity of what's happened hanging between us like a blade.
"Out," I order, unbuckling her seatbelt. I reach for her elbow to steady her despite myself—either because I want to touch her, or because I can’t resist the protective instinct I feel toward her, even after everything that’s happened in the last couple of hours.
She moves awkwardly with her hands cuffed behind her back, sliding out of the passenger seat, but manages to swing her legs out and stand. I keep a firm grip on her upper arm as I guide her through the dark garage and into the house, turning on a lamp when we finally reach the living room. The windows are all shuttered and drawn with blackout curtains, but I still intend to keep light to a minimum.
The safe house is the one that the development used as a model. The floors are less gleaming and pristine now—dusty, that’s for sure—all tile and wood. The furniture is all something out of a home design catalog, covered in plastic drop sheets right now, and the art is the kind of thing you see in a home goods store. Nothing personal or particularly unique. It’s a showroom of a house, but it fits my needs right now just fine.
I lead her to an overstuffed, floral-print armchair and push her down into it.
“Konstantin,” she whispers, and hearing my name in her voice sends a jolt through me. The way she says it, soft, almost pleading, feels like it could be another manipulation. Another lie.
"Don't." The word comes out more sharply than I intended, but it might be for the best. "Don't speak unless I ask you a question."
She falls silent, watching me with those green eyes that I've looked into so many times now, thinking that I was getting to know the woman behind them. That I wasfallingfor her. The rage bubbles up again, threatening to overflow.
"Who are you?" I growl, and her chin lifts slightly.
"You know who I am."