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The Adirondacks are beautiful in early summer. The trees are full and green, sunlight filtering through the branches in soft patches across the pavement. Somewhere nearby, birds are singing. The air is warm without being oppressive, carrying the clean scent of pine and damp earth. It feels like a new day, which it is, for Mikhail.

I lean against the side of Vasily’s car; arms folded loosely across my chest. Even though it’s not technically a “work” day, I’m dressed in high-waisted, perfectly ironed (thanks to Vasily’s staff) trousers and a wine-red silk blouse.

He stands beside me, one shoulder against the vehicle, close enough that our arms occasionally brush. When I came down the steps this morning, having agreed to be there when Mikhail was released, it didn’t escape me that Vasily’s dark gaze trailed up my legs, to my collarbone, to my lips. And lingered there.

Now neither of us says much. And that’s fine. For once, I don’t feel the need to fill the silence.

That’s also the disturbing part. I feel content.

Not restless, impatient, or harried. Not running from one task to the next and trying to pare everything down into the shortest amount of time it could take. Not counting the minutes until I can return to New York.

Content. With him, specifically.

The jail doors open, and I straighten up. Vasily doesn’t move at all beside me, completely stoic, as though he picks up men here regularly…maybe he does.

Mikhail steps outside, carrying a small bag, blinking against the sunlight as though he’s forgotten what freedom looks like. There’s a patchy beard on his face that doesn’t look great.

Then he sees us. His face breaks into a grin.

“Matilda.”

He crosses the lot quickly, and before I can prepare for it, he wraps his arms around me. I laugh, hugging him back, easily wrapping my arms around his thin frame.

“Congratulations,” I tell him.

He pulls away, eyes bright. “Thank you. I wouldn’t be standing here without you.” Then he looks toward Vasily. “And you.”

There’s no I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you, and that lack of accusation is what finally brings home what I’ve been realizing over these weeks. Vasily’s men truly love him. On both sides: the ones working the legitimate side of the business, and the ones working in the shadows. They know he’ll come for their enemies, because their enemies are his enemies.

Vasily pushes away from the car.

Mikhail extends his hand, but Vasily pulls him into a brief embrace instead.

“I didn’t do nearly as much as Miss Pierce did,” he says. “I’ll simply be paying her bill.”

Interesting. I raise a brow. “Good. We did establish that paying the bill was your part of the arrangement,” I quip, hand on one hip. “The kidnapping wasn’t exactly in my engagement terms.”

Mikhail’s gaze snaps to his boss. “You didn’t. Vasily.”

Vasily’s face is impassive, jaw sharp as ever, eyes relaxed. He shrugs.

“Only the best for you, Mikhail. And Matilda needed some… convincing to come to your rescue.”

The look in his eyes darkens when he says those words, and I feel a blush heat my cheeks as I scoff. Mikhail doesn’t seem to notice. He’s probably still trying to process the fact that I was kidnapped. Assuming that is the “convincing” Vasily did to get me here.

Little does he know…

Shaking his head, Mikhail says something else to Vasily in Russian that I don’t quite catch. But it has a tone of gratefulness to it, and this time the men shake hands. Something warm settles in my chest.

Mikhail turns toward Art, who’s waiting nearby with a nondescript sedan. The accountant grasps Art’s forearm in the familiar way I’ve seen Vasily’s men do, and Art gives him a firm nod.

“Good to have you back,” Art says.

Mikhail smiles. Then he looks at Vasily again. “We should talk business soon.”

Vasily’s expression shifts into something more like the boss I’ve come to know.

“Soon.”