I wish I had Beth to talk to about this. I know she wasn’t exactly an expert on normal, but I still miss her unorthodox views on things, the way she could turn everything on its head and have it make some kind of twisted sense. I’m pretty sure I know what she would say in regard to my situation. She would tell me I’m lucky to have someone like Julian—that we are meant to be together and everything else is bullshit.

And she would probably be right. When I think back to those lonely, empty months before Julian’s return—when I had my freedom and normal life, but didn’t have him—all my doubts fade away. No matter what he is or what he does, I would sooner die than go through that soul-crushing misery again.

For better or worse, I’m no longer complete without Julian, and no amount of self-flagellation can alter that fact.

A week after Julian’s conversation with Frank, I knock on the heavy metal door and wait for him to let me in. I had spent the morning walking with Rosa and preparing for my upcoming classes, while Julian went in without me to do some paperwork for his offshore accounts. Apparently, even crime lords have to deal with taxes and legal matters; it appears to be a universal evil that no one can avoid.

When the door swings open, I’m surprised to see a tall, dark-haired man sitting across the large oval table from Julian. He looks to be in his mid-thirties, just a few years older than my husband. I have seen him walking around the estate before, but I’ve never had an occasion to interact with him in person. From a distance, he’d reminded me of a sleek, dark predator—an impression that’s only strengthened by the way he’s looking at me now, his gray eyes tracking my every move with a peculiar mix of watchfulness and indifference.

“Come in, Nora,” Julian says, gesturing for me to join them. “This is Peter Sokolov, our security consultant.”

“Oh, hi. It’s very nice to meet you.” Walking over to the table, I give Peter a cautious smile as I sit down next to Julian. Peter is a good-looking man, with a strong jaw and high, exotically slanted cheekbones, but for some reason, he makes the fine hair at the back of my neck stand up. It’s not what he says or does—he nods at me politely while sitting there, his pose deceptively calm and relaxed—it’s what I see in his steel-colored eyes.

Rage. Pure, undiluted rage. I sense it within Peter, feel it emanating from his pores. It’s not anger or a momentary flare-up of temper. No, this emotion goes deeper than that. It’s a part of him, like his hard-muscled body or the white scar that bisects his left eyebrow.

For all his cold, carefully controlled demeanor, the man is a deadly volcano waiting to explode.

“We were just finishing up,” Julian says, and I catch a note of displeasure in his voice. Tearing my eyes away from Peter, I see a tiny muscle flexing in Julian’s jaw. I must’ve stared at Peter for too long without realizing it, and my husband misinterpreted my involuntary fascination as interest.