Page 90 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

“Move,” he says, shoving him hard enough to make the second guard follow without being touched.

Abramov appears by the side entrance with a secure tablet in one hand. His gaze moves over Cara, then over me, and he’s smart enough not to ask.

I point at the camera above the bay. “Pull this yard feed out of general access. No archive request, written note, or internal tag.”

Abramov’s thumbs move across the screen as he steps toward the control panel beside the door.

“Done,” he says.

The driver slows near the threshold. I turn on him. Color drains out of his face before I take one step.

“You heard nothing,” I say, keeping my voice low. “If I hear that name in a report, a message, a joke, or from anyone else’s mouth, I’ll take your tongue first and your hands after.”

He leaves fast.

Dima looks at the remaining men. “Out.”

They go.

Cara stays beside the delivery crates, one hand still braced against the truck. Snow melts in her hair. Her anger hasn’t left her face, but her eyes move from the cleared yard to Abramov’s tablet, then back to me.

She sees what I don’t do. I keep his name out of my mouth, leave the reports closed, and make no call to Boston while she’s still shaking in front of me. For now, the best way to protect her is to keep the name out of everyone else’s hands.

“Cara,” I say.

I hold out my hand. “Inside.”

She swallows and straightens with more pride than balance. “Don’t order me like one of your men,” she says, reaching for the edge of a crate.

Her knee almost gives. I catch her elbow and hold it just long enough to steady her. She’s freezing, and she’s still shaking.

Dirt marks one side of her trousers from the fall. Her hair has come loose at her temple. Her face is red with humiliation, and I hate that she has to stand here in front of men.

“I’m not ordering you,” I say, moving so the others can’t see her as clearly. “I’m getting you inside before your brother gets another minute from you.”

Cara looks at my hand as if she wants to slap it away and take it at the same time. “Patrick knows about him,” she says.

I keep my face steady because hers is close to breaking. “Then we move faster.”

The question sits in my mouth. Does Patrick know the boy is mine? I don’t ask. Not here. Not while she’s shaking in the snow and men are still close enough to hear me.

Fuck. I want to tear this whole yard apart.

I take off my coat and put it around her shoulders.

Abramov takes the lead through the service entrance, cutting nearby access as we pass. Dima falls behind us, heavy and silent, a blade with boots. Cara stumbles on the service stairs. My hand moves before thought can stop it, closing around her wrist. She pulls back the second she finds her balance.

“Do you think I’m going to collapse?” she asks, wiping at her cheek with the heel of her hand.

“No,” I say, opening the door into the north-wing passage. “I think you’re going to keep standing until it kills you.”

Her laugh comes out broken. “You have no idea what I’ve done to keep standing.”

I don’t answer.

I know a night in Boston. One hotel bed. One woman I left behind with no explanation because grief took my throat, and revenge gave me somewhere to put my hands.

The years after are hers. The child is ours.