Page 52 of Bride of Vengeance

Yes,I want to say. Because Mila will see it as a conflict of interest. Because Alexei will wonder if I've been compromised. Because mixing personal and professional is exactly what got me into this mess.

But what comes out is: "I don't know."

An hour later, we're in his Bentley heading north. I've changed into my last clean outfit—the same jeans from yesterday and a tank top I had in my go-bag. We stopped at a Target on the way out of Manhattan, where I grabbed essentials with cash whileMikhail kept watch. Nothing fancy, just basics to get me through whatever comes next.

"That was risky," I say, checking the mirror for the hundredth time. "Stopping at a store."

"You needed clothes. And I needed to see if we were being followed." He changes lanes smoothly. "We weren't."

"You sure?"

"I've been doing this for fifteen years, Mariana. I'm sure."

The shopping bag sits at my feet—underwear, two shirts, basic toiletries. The kind of mundane necessities that feel surreal when you're running for your life. The cashier hadn't even looked at me twice, too busy scrolling her phone to notice she was ringing up America's most wanted.

"Tell me about them," he says as Manhattan gives way to suburbs. "My family. What they're really like now."

So I do. I tell him about Mila's brilliant mind, how she can hack anything but gets flustered by the twins' crying. About Alexei's dry humor and devastating competence. About birthday parties with too much Russian food and the way they look at each other like the rest of the world doesn't exist.

"They're happy," I finish. "Really, truly happy."

"Good." The word comes out fierce. "That's all I wanted. For her to be safe and happy."

We pull up to the estate's gate, and my stomach drops. This is it.

A security guard built like a brick shithouse approaches the driver's side. The kind of guy who probably eats FBI agents for breakfast and picks his teeth with their badges. Mikhail lowers the window, and the guard's eyes widen slightly before his face goes carefully blank.

"Sir," he says, then his eyes find me. A flicker of recognition—he knows exactly who I am and what the news is saying about me. "Ma'am."

"They're expecting us," Mikhail says simply.

The guard nods and waves us through. No questions, no ID check. Just immediate compliance that tells me everything about how much respect—or fear—Ghost commands even here.

The house comes into view—massive, beautiful, intimidating as hell. My hands are shaking as we park.

"Ready?" he asks.

"No."

"Me neither."

We get out together, and the front door opens before we reach it. Alexei stands there in a casual sweater and jeans, looking nothing like the Bratva king he is. His eyes scan us both, cataloging everything—our tension, the way we're standing carefully apart.

"Mariana." He says my name first, deliberately. A show of respect despite my current status. "Welcome back."

Mikhail steps forward, and I see Alexei's eyes sharpen as he gets a good look at the legendary Ghost's face. The man he's only glimpsed until now. The phantom killer everyone fears but no one really knows.

"Alexei," Mikhail says quietly. "We need to talk."

"Yes, you said it was urgent." Not a question. Alexei's studying him with the intensity of someone memorizing every detail.

We hear footsteps from inside, then Mila appears, holding baby Anya on her hip.

"Mila!" I call out.

This is the woman who makes federal databases look like open books,watching her approach.The one who can track money through seventeen shell companies without breaking a sweat. Alexei mentioned once that she used to work in cybersecurity in Manhattan before the kids—and he also said she could breach the Pentagon if she wanted to, but preferred legal challenges.

"What's wrong? Is Ghost—"