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She leans forward and kisses my cheek, then whispers in my ear.

A fucking lump forms in my throat. Jesus, when did I become such a pussy and bleeding heart?

“Goodbye, for now, Ruslan,” she says softly. She turns.

The black velvet cloak swishes behind her as she walks. And on the back, stitched in crimson thread, is the symbol I never thought I’d ever see and live to say that I have.

The red keyhole.

The Black Widow.

The car pulls away.

I glance down at the folders in my hand. The weight of everything inside them presses into my bones.

Then I hear it.

Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.

Helicopter blades slice through the wind.

I look up.

A sleek military-grade chopper descends beyond the treeline, blades carving the dusk. It hovers, then begins to land in the clearing near the north wing.

My chest tightens and my pulse races.

She’s here.

Tara.

My runaway bride.

She's home. It's time to have a good talk with my runaway bride and time to make amends with the past for both of us.

22

TARA

Present Day - Dragunov Village - Drako Kremlin

The blades roar above me, chopping the air with a steady rhythm that rattles my bones. I grip the edge of the seat as we descend into Dragunov Village, but my mind’s not in the present. It’s spinning back to three weeks ago in New York. The day everything changed.

TARA

Three Weeks Ago – New York City

“Do you see one?” Clyde asks, sweeping the street with his eyes.

I shake my head, scanning the crowded sidewalks. “No. Fuck, who even has phone booths anymore?”

“New Yorkers,” he mutters, then nods. “There.”

We weave through traffic and reach the narrow glass box just as someone steps out. My hand trembles as I dig for coins. The payphone reeks of piss and cigarettes, but I press the receiver to my ear and dial the number—Sabrina’s.

It rings. Once. Twice. I'm getting frantic as Sabrina is taking so long to answer. My throat tightens.

Then—