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“I don’t care, as long as I get to be with you,” I exhale, the warmth spreading through every part of me, lighting up the once-darkened corners of my heart.
I feel a deep joy growing in me. “We can celebrate when we go. Celebrate that I have the most amazing friend in the world and that the threat over your head is gone!” I add.
The seriousness of what Harper has managed to do hits me. "Julian," I shake my head, my gaze drifting over his shoulder, out the wide window where the clouds drift lazily in the sky.
Silent thanks flow from my heart to the heavens. Thank you, God. Thank you for intertwining my path with Julian’s.
I can almost picture my parents smiling down at us.
If I had never met Julian, then this crazy Russian could have killed him!
Tears start to well up, spilling over before I can stop them. Julian is in front of me instantly, kneeling with a tenderness that wraps around me like a warm blanket.
"Hey," he coos, his voice soft and reassuring as he gently brushes away each tear. "It's ok. It's all going to be ok now." He swipes another tear away.
I sniffle, "You're like a built-in windshield wiper." I joke, trying to stop the tears from flowing.
He laughs gently, "I'll add that to my resume. CEO of Sterling Defense and Pumpkin's designated windshield wiper."
I managed to laugh, too, my arms encircling him in a hug that speaks volumes. It really is going to be okay. My ex has moved on, the looming threat over Julian is lifting, and here I am, embarking on a new chapter with a man who embraces me despite me being an overly emotional and inappropriate mess most of the time.
"I'm just happy," I admit the words barely a whisper among my drying tears.
His smile is audible in his response, "So you cry when you're happy. Some might say that's a red flag, neighbor," his teasing tone lightens the air.
"Just promise me you'll only allow yourself to cry when I'm here," he says, a playful seriousness in his eyes.
"Why?" My voice is a mix of a laugh and a sniffle as I struggle to regain my composure.
He holds my chin gently, his gaze intense and filled with admiration. "Because you look so goddamn beautiful when you cry when you smile, blush, seethe, and when you obsess over pumpkin spice. I want to be there to witness every shade of your beauty, Pumpkin.”
Chapter 43
Julian
Two weeks later.
You can be the wisest man in the world; you could even have a crystal ball, but if you become arrogant, you'll eventually die on the hill you built to protect yourself.
Harper was right when she said the Russian was arrogant. Not only did he threaten my family, but he also dared to come onto U.S. soil for his selfish pursuits. That’s what did him in. He'd be safe if he had stayed in Russia or a country that couldn’t extradite him. His foolishness and greed led him right into a black site room, underground in a CIA jail known only to my uncle and a select few.
He's done.
I hope he enjoyed his game of life while he was able to play. His billions in the bank are being seized as we speak; his life as he knew it is over. He will spend the rest of his days rotting away in a cell, alone. Silence can be worse than incessant chatter. It’s a form of torture the CIA uses from time to time.
Sterling Defense is safe, my brothers are safe, and I can finally take my girl out on a proper date. That is, once I return. I wasn't going to miss the opportunity to confront, with my fists, the man who took my career from me, all for his own gain.
I'm not alone. My dad and Uncle Dan are in the next room. Theo is here, too, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with me. He’s going to enter the room with me to stop me from killing the guy. Not that anyone would care – after Uncle Dan's team did more digging, we found out the Russian was involved in the sex trade business. We handed that tip-off to Interpol, who will sniff it out and shut it down.
As for the sniper who shot me, we got him as well. He was smarter, though. The CIA, along with Interpol, captured him. Since he was on Interpol's turf, we let them keep him. He was just a hired hand who messed up, but the root of the evil is behind the door.
I open the door and crack my knuckles. He's tied to a chair, stripped naked except for his boxers. The room is like an icebox, and I don't miss the chattering of teeth bouncing off the padded walls. The harsh fluorescent lights cast stark shadows across his figure, emphasizing the vulnerability of his position. His eyes dart around the room, a mix of defiance and fear flickering in them, but mostly, there's a realization of his inevitable fate. The stark, barren walls of the room offer no comfort, no escape from the cold truth he now faces.
Every shiver that runs through his body, every ragged breath he takes, echoes in the room's emptiness. It starkly contrasts the power he once wielded, a reminder of how quickly fortunes can change. The cold isn't just physical; it's a psychological tool, stripping away layers of bravado and leaving raw the man beneath.
As I stand before him, the temperature in the room seems to drop even further, the tension palpable. My own breath forms clouds in the frigid air, but I remain unaffected by the cold that has him trembling. It's a visual metaphor for the balance of power that has shifted dramatically in my favor. This man, once untouchable in his arrogance, is now at the mercy of the very person he sought to destroy.
“Mr. Fedorov,” I begin, cracking another set of knuckles. I roll my shoulder, still feeling the injury. I have a few more physical therapy appointments to attend, and against the doctor's beliefs, I hope to regain the full range of motion in my shoulder.
