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Mikhail climbs into the waiting car with Art, and we watch as they pull away.

I turn toward Vasily. For the first time, there is nothing left between us and the life we’ve been pretending isn’t waiting on the other side of this trial. But I’m not sure I want to go back to mine.

Vasily isn’t looking at me; he’s watching the car disappear down the road, carrying Mikhail and Art toward whatever comes next.

“I’m surprised he wants to get started again so soon.”

He looks down, away, anywhere but at me as he answers: “Men like Mikhail are loyal. And he probably knows that the books are bound to be a mess, with him inside for nearly seven weeks.”

Then, he finally looks at me.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

I shake my head. “You already thanked me.”

“I know.”

There’s something different in his voice this time. Something that makes my pulse quicken.

He takes out his phone and calls Art. “Matilda leaves whenever she wants. No permission from me. No one follows her unless she asks for protection.” He pauses, listening, then hands the phone to me.

“Your phone monitoring is off,” Art says. “Your own phone, Ms. Pierce. Calls, location, all of it. The staff have the same instructions about leaving.”

I give the phone back slowly. “And if I go to New York today?”

Vasily’s mouth tightens. “Then you go to New York today.”

“No one brings me back?”

“No one.”

The answer doesn’t undo the workshop. It doesn’t turn being taken into a choice. But the car keys are in his open hand, and for the first time he isn’t attaching another task to the way out.

I could leave. I let myself believe it before I decide what to do next.

His phone lights again before he puts it away. This time, he lets me read Ariadna’s message: Semiyon returned to the condo this morning. Confirmed.

“He’s been moving since the courthouse,” Vasily says. “We kept watching the address. He finally came back.”

Another message follows, copied to Art. The last local suppliers have pulled out; Yuri’s men are leaving the territory. Vasily reads it twice.

“The compound?” I ask.

“That, and the contacts we followed from Semiyon. Art and Ariadna closed off the rest while you were in court. Yuri’s alive, and he’ll stay ambitious. But this attempt is finished. He no longer has the men or supply lines here to carry it through.”

I think of the boy in the guest room. “And Kevin?”

“Home with his mother. Still recovering. She sent word that he’s complaining about being bored.” His face eases. “Good. He’s done working for us.”

He steps closer, hands sliding into the pockets of his trousers. He looks impeccable today in charcoal and white, classic and handsome, the sun shining in the silver in his hair. The easy confidence is still there, but beneath it is the man I’ve seen when he’s worried about his people, when he talks about Timur, when he looks at me like I’m something he doesn’t quite know what to do with.

“I made you a promise,” he says. My heart skips. “About your father.”

I stare at him. It isn’t hard to reach for that promise in my memory. Those aren’t the kind of words that are easy to let go of.

Someday you’ll walk this earth without worrying about your father.

My heart swells in a way that’s almost painful. Vasily holds my gaze. “Do you want to see me keep it?”