A ruthless mob boss tried to insult me in Russian at his restaurant table, completely unaware I understood every word.

The black SUV sped through the rain-drenched streets of Chicago, blowing through red lights along Michigan Avenue.

Kirill was driving, a white bandage wrapped tightly around his forearm where a flying piece of glass had cut him during the firefight. Alexi sat in the back seat beside Mara, his suit coat removed, his gun resting on the leather seat between them.

Mara stared out the window, her hands tucked tightly into her lap, her body trembling with delayed adrenaline.

"Drink this," Alexi said, handing her a small crystal flask filled with cognac.

Mara took the flask, her fingers brushing against his. She took a small sip. The burning liquid cut through the cold shock in her chest, warming her throat.

"I told you no weapons," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the engine.

"I didn't bring weapons to attack, Mara. I brought weapons to survive," Alexi replied quietly. "If you hadn't noticed Nikolai’s stance, Kirill and I would be dead on that floor right now."

Mara looked at him, her gray eyes dark with confusion and sudden realization. "How did I know that? How did I know what his feet meant?"

Alexi stayed silent for a moment, watching the streetlights illuminate her pale face. "Your father, Mara. Richard Ellison wasn't just a State Department diplomat attached to the consulate in Saint Petersburg."

Mara froze. The air left her lungs completely. "What did you say?"

"Your father was an intelligence officer attached to the Defense Intelligence Agency," Alexi revealed, his voice solemn and respectful. "He was a specialist in counter-surveillance in Eastern Europe. He taught you things when you were a child without you ever realizing what they were."

"No..." Mara breathed, shaking her head. "No, he was a diplomat. He worked on cultural exchanges—"

"He was killed because he uncovered Viktor Saranov’s original smuggling network ten years ago," Alexi interrupted gently. "The car crash in Saint Petersburg wasn't an accident, Mara. Saranov ordered it."

The world seemed to stop moving. The rain on the glass, the hum of the engine, the glow of the dashboard lights—everything evaporated, leaving Mara suspended in a terrifying void of truth.