His chin falls to his chest. “I know,” he mumbles. “Yeah, I know.”

“You don’t have to bring me presents, either,” I say. “We’re not a couple anymore. There’s no point in pretending.”

He raises his eyes to meet mine. That forlorn puppy-dog gaze, designed in a laboratory to tug on your heartstrings. Sarah McLachlan ought to be singing in the background about being in the arms of an angel, begging you to donate to a worthy cause.

“I never stopped loving you, June,” he says at last.

“Really?” I laugh bitterly. “Because it felt like you stopped a long time ago.”

He turns towards the boarded windows. We’re silent for a long time.

Chug-chug-chug, goes the washing machine.

Skit-skit-skit, go the roaches.

Thump-thump-thump, goes my broken heart.

“I want a chance to prove myself to you, June,” he says after God knows how long has passed. “I want the chance to win back your trust.” He comes closer and picks up both my hands in his. “My life was never better than when you were in it. And I need you by my side to be happy. I want us to be a family. The three of us. You, me, and our baby.”

He was always good at this. The honeyed words, the charming smile. The clawing sincerity that makes you feel guilty for not believing him right away.

Be strong, June.

“That’s all I ask,” he says. “Just don’t write me off yet.”

I free my hands from his. I don’t really know how to respond except with a jerk of my head.

“I brought you something else,” he says suddenly, digging into his jacket pocket and pulling out a can of soda. “You love these, don’t you?”

For a second, my chest tightens with something like the beginnings of a smile. Then he rotates the can in his hand, and I see what it is.

Diet Coke. Not lemon soda, but a Diet Coke.

“Thanks,” I whisper, taking it from him with a forced smile.

I wish I could explain all the ways that hurts me.

4

KOLYA

When we get to the warehouse, I park the car across the entrance and jump out.

My men open the doors to let me through. I’ve already got my gun out by the time I reach the empty second floor where Vikentiy Kulikov, one of the last survivors of Ravil’s inner circle, is being held.

He’s been zip-tied to a chair, duct tape plastered over his mouth. Barely-clotted blood leaks from several fresh wounds along his arms and chest, but he’s conscious, more or less. He bobs his head in my general direction when I enter the room, though his eyes are dim, barely there. Clouded with the veil of defeat, of pain, of the knowledge that he doesn’t have much longer left.

Minutes. Maybe less.

And all of them will hurt.

“And then there was one,” I murmur, glaring down at him.

He holds my gaze for a moment before he drops his chin to his chest, too weary and beaten to do much else. I lean forward and grab him by his greasy mop of hair. Then I take hold of a corner of the bloodstained duct tape and rip it off from his lips.