“I was hoping they wouldn’t see it as a conflict.”

“If I had to testify, we’d have a problem, but since Duffy’s testimony will be enough to get the only other people involved in my kidnapping, I’m clear to sit on this side of things.”

Just saying the words out loud still causes a flash of anger and bitter disappointment to course through me.

“Look, I know that bothers you. Duffy going free bothers the shit out of me, too. Trust me. He hurt us both. He hurt all of us. But his life will be over, just in a different way. He won’t spend it in prison and he won’t be dead for his crimes, but he’ll never be a truly free man. He’ll be hunted as a traitor for the rest of his life. Even in witness protection, wherever they stick him when all this is said and done, he’ll spend the rest of his days looking over his shoulder, wondering if someone’s coming for him.”

“But all the bigwigs will be in prison.”

“Yeah, but Duffy will always worry that they’ve somehow managed to hire someone to kill him, or that they’ve paid off some law enforcement to give them his location.”

A fear that has steadily grown more powerful over the last couple of weeks rears its head. “Technically we have to worry about the same thing.”

“No. And that’s because the new leadership with this cell of Bratva has agreed to our protection. Even Slava and his cronies aren’t stupid enough to test the entire Russian mafia. They have ties, but their power is insignificant compared to that of a sitting head honcho.”

“God, I hope you’re right.”

I feel sweat break out on my palms.

“Besides, evidently my brother made quite the name for himself during his time at sea. And from what I understand, he’s put the word out that if anyone lays a hand on you, three hundred and sixty-five days from that moment, they’ll be dead a year.”

It takes my brain a few seconds to process that and laugh. But it’s an automated response. I’m still stuck on the fact that Nash has put out some kind of warning to anyone who might think to harm me.

But then common sense kicks in.

“I guess he needs to protect the people who are finally bringing him the justice he’s waited so long for.” I can’t keep the hurt and disappointment from my voice.

“I’m sure he wants to do that, too. But that’s not why he did it.” After a pause, Cash clears his throat. “Look, Marissa. I misjudged you. It took me a while to see the person you are deep down. But not Nash. I think he saw it right away.”

“Thanks, Cash,” is all I can manage past my wobbling vocal cords.

My heart aches. I want so much to believe Nash cared about me as much as I cared about him, as much as I still do. But if he did, he’d be here. With me. Where he belongs.

But he’s not. He sailed away. Out of my life. And one of these days, I’ll have to let him go.

THIRTY-THREE

Nash

Two months later

The balmy Caribbean air ruffles my hair as I stare out at the wide expanse of sea. As far as the eye can see in every direction, there’s nothing. I should feel relaxed and safe and satisfied after getting such an encouraging update from Cash. Everything is going along as planned, moving in the right direction. Marissa’s kicking ass and taking names. With that jerk-off Jensen’s help, of course.

I feel my lip curl at the thought of him cozying up to her over some law books. Just as it does every time I think of her with someone else, rage fills me. For a few seconds, I close my eyes and visualize throwing Jensen down on a fancy courtroom floor and beating the shit out of him, not stopping until his face is unrecognizable and my knuckles are a shredded, bloody mess.

I open my eyes and look to my right, to the satellite phone that’s lying on the glass table beside my deck chair. It’s for emergencies only—I make calls from ports whenever I just want to check in—but every day that I don’t call and talk to Marissa, tell her I’m coming back and I’m going to be a part of her life whether she likes it or not, feels like an emergency, like I’m lost at sea with no compass and no life preserver.

She’s starting to feel more and more like an anchor, like a North Star. Like my North Star. With every week that passes, it seems my direction just feels . . . wrong. Like I’m going the wrong way. Like I’m sailing away when I should be sailing toward.

Toward Marissa.

THIRTY-FOUR

Marissa

There’s no question that the man brought into the room is Greg Davenport. This is the first time I’ve actually gotten to see him since this whole thing started. Jensen talked to him alone here at the prison the first time.

If I were passing him on the street, I think I’d recognize him. He looks like an older, slightly paler version of his sons. The resemblance is striking. But for the softer brown eyes and lighter blond hair, and the fact that he’s older, of course, Greg Davenport could be a brother to Nash rather than his father.

His eyes flicker to mine and he smiles. It’s a pleasant smile, but it seems a little tired and a lot worried. I wonder if he’s sleeping. If I were in his shoes, I doubt I would be.

We’ve taken every precaution to keep things quiet until we can get Slava and the other two indicted and in custody. That won’t guarantee Greg’s safety, but it sure can’t hurt.

His first question lets me know that if he’s losing sleep, it’s not over worry for his own safety. “How are my sons?”

Jensen looks to me for an answer. He doesn’t keep in regular contact with Cash like I do. For obvious reasons.

I clear my throat and smile pleasantly at Mr. Davenport. “They’re both fine, sir.”

He laughs and I get a glimpse of what Nash might’ve looked like in his carefree days. I’m sure he was breathtaking! Now, there’s only bitterness and anger. But even so, he’s still the most handsome man I know.

Well, did know.

“And who might you be?”

“I’m sorry. My name is Marissa Townsend. I’m working with Jensen as a special prosecutor.”

He shakes his head, looking duly impressed. Neither Greg nor Jensen knows the truth about my involvement in the case. I’m sure they both think my rich father called in a favor. But that’s not the case at all. In order to be appointed to the case by the attorney general, I had to tell him about my involvement. I had to convince him that my intimate knowledge of some of the events and players would be a help to the case. I explained about being kidnapped and spending time in the presence of some of the suspects, about learning things from listening to them. Thankfully, he didn’t require me to get specific. If he had, he’d have seen that I’m not nearly as important as I made it appear. What I have invested in this is heart. And what the attorney general doesn’t realize is that that’s what makes me most valuable.

Greg’s voice brings me back to the present.

“You must be the one Nash knows.”

“Yes, I know Nash.”

He nods and smiles. “So you’re the one.”

I frown, my stomach flipping over at something I see in his eyes, in his smile.

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“There comes a time in life when every man meets the woman who changes the game, who changes him. You’re the one.” I feel a blush sting my cheeks. I look nervously at my laced fingers where they rest on the table in front of me. I’m aware of Jensen’s curious gaze on me. I do my best to ignore it. He doesn’t know that the Nash we’re talking about isn’t the Nash he thinks he knows. And Jensen also thinks that relationship is over. Very much over. Which it is. I just wish it weren’t.

“I think you must be mistaken.”

“Oh no. I’m not mistaken. I’m not surprised it’s a woman like you. You remind me of Lizzie. In all the ways that matter.”

His look turns sad.

“I’m sure you miss her. This won’t bring her back, but maybe bringing her justice and being able to watch your sons grow old will ease the pain.”

“Nothing ever eases the pain of losing your soul mate. You’re not as smart as you look if you think different.”

He’s not trying to insult me. I can tell from his earnest expression. He’s trying to tell me something. Something I already know.

He’s trying to tell me I’ll never be whole without Nash. Never.

But I already knew that.

THIRTY-FIVE

Nash

Three months later

I take one last look around the tiny apartment before I say goodbye to Sharifa and Jamilla. It’s not a great space, but compared to the shack-like structure where they lived in their village of Beernassi, this place is like the Ritz.

The walls are painted a cheery yellow and the furniture, while not exactly new, is a pale green and in good shape. The kitchen’s white appliances are clean and there’s even a microwave now, which Sharifa thinks is the most extravagant part of all.

But not Jamilla. If I had to guess, I’d say she would say her playroom is the most extravagant part of all.

It consists of a thick plastic play kitchen, complete with a pink table and four tiny chairs, each one currently occupied by a different stuffed animal. She’s serving them the meal she just cooked in her little plastic skillet. The sun is streaming in through the window, turning her raven hair to glistening waves of black silk. In the three weeks since I took them away from their home to bring them here to Savannah, the change in her diet is evident. Her skin and hair look healthy, and her cough has almost completely disappeared.

Not having to worry about someone bursting through the door to gun them down and not having to wonder where they’ll get money for food is showing, too. Sharifa is more relaxed, and her calm spills over into her daughter’s smiles and laughter. Maybe one day the memory of her father’s brutal murder will be a vague memory.

I doubt Sharifa will ever fully recover from the loss of Yusuf, but this move is helping as much as anything can. Every time Jamilla giggles, Sharifa smiles. It makes me think there might be hope in the world after all.

I’ve been able to honor my friend by giving his family freedom they’ve never known before. And stability. All their basic needs will be met. I set up an account for them. It’s funded by a substantial savings that’s constantly generating money. Most of the dividend will go into Sharifa’s checking account. A small portion will go into a college fund for Jamilla and an even smaller portion back into another savings account for emergencies. I’ve also already hired an immigration lawyer to help her become a naturalized citizen so she can work here, so that’s been taken care of, too. All in all, they should be all set for a long, long time to come.

“My cab’s here. I need to get going. You have my phone number, right?”

I bought a phone. One to keep permanently. Sharifa and Jamilla deserve to have an emergency contact. One that doesn’t change from day to day or month to month. It’s my first step toward laying down roots. I figure it’s about time.

“Yes. But I will only call if emergency,” she says in her stilted English.

“I told you that you can call anytime. I may not be local, but I can find someone to get you the help you need in an emergency.”

She shakes her head vigorously. “Too much already. I can’t thank you enough.”

“You don’t have to. It’s what Yusuf would’ve wanted. You’re never a bother. Call me anytime.”

Sharifa steps closer to me and reaches up to lay her hand on my cheek. “Bless you, Nikolai. May every day for your wife and children be blessed. Peace be with you.”

Her words cause a pang in my chest. I don’t have a wife. Or children. I may never have. And if I do, will I have a family with the woman I love? Or will I settle for something . . . less? “Thank you, Sharifa. I pray the same for you.”

I tell Jamilla good-bye and give her tiny shoulders a squeeze. She turns into my chest and throws her arms around my neck. She gives me a big, smacking kiss on my cheek then leans back to look at me. She’s smiling broadly.

It’s with a heavy heart that I make my way out the door and down the steps. My only wish is that Yusuf were here to see his family smile, to see them happy and safe here in the United States.

I’m preoccupied during the cab ride back to the hotel. This morning when I went for coffee, I saw on the news that the trial against the Atlanta sect of the Russian mafia is well under way. Because of all the sensationalism surrounding it, the judge closed the courtroom. There is no close coverage or photos or anything, really. The media is simply updated periodically with information they can release to the public. It’s pretty vague stuff, just talking about crucial testimony of former employees, but never going into specifics.

But then I saw a short press conference held specifically for legal counsel to give statements. The balding lawyer for the Bratva gave his brief spiel, proclaiming that he was even more confident after this week’s proceedings that his clients would be proven innocent. And then there was a statement from the prosecution.

And Marissa gave it.

She was practically glowing in her dark blue suit and pale pink blouse. Her voice was strong and confident as she spoke.

“With the ironclad evidence presented by our team and the irrefutable testimony of eyewitnesses, we have no doubt justice will be served.”

She took a few questions and answered them deftly, like she’d been fielding them all her life. It’s easy to see this is what she was born to do. And that she enjoys doing it. And I’m big enough to admit that it’s bittersweet.

She’s doing great. She’s happy and driven, and she found her place in life. Her peace. She took life by the balls and came out on top. And of course I wish her well.