Page 143 of Desperate Crimes
“And you can help me, Daddy,” I continue, lower now.Deadlier.“Or you can get the hell out of my way.”
Another pause.
Then something shifts—so small most people wouldn’t catch it.
But I do.
Because it’s the sound of a man recognizing his child has become his equal.Of power folding in on itself to make room for respect.
“I’ll send a car,” he finally says, his voice rough with something unspoken.“We’ll take the Atlantic City airport.”
“We?”I ask, not quite ready to hope.
“You do not think I’ll let you go alone, do you?”
I breathe.The first real breath I’ve taken since that damn call.
“Okay,” I whisper.And then I stop him before he hangs up.“And Dad?”
“Yes, Doshka?”
“Thank you.”
I don’t need to see him to know he’s still there.Holding the phone.Processing.The hum in my ear says it all.
He heard me.Really heard me.
“Always, Doshka,” he murmurs.
I feel different.Better.
But I hang up before either of us can ruin it.
Then I go to my closet.
Past the silk dresses and designer shoes.Past the curated wardrobe my husband’s tailor has crafted to turn me into a Fury wife fit for the cover of Forbes.
And I reach for the box marked “workout stuff” at the back.
The one I packed quietly.Secretly.
Before Nico.
Before the mansion.
Before I knew what kind of woman I’d need to become.
I pop the lid.
Not gym gear.
Not yoga pants.
This is real state of the art Sigma International training gear.
The kind my father and Uncle Josef drilled into me between boarding school and business classes.
Black tactical pants.Kevlar vest.Tactical belt.
