The private jet touched down just after midnight, its sleek black frame a shadow against the Croatian sky.
Nova waited on the runway.
No guards. No Liam. No baby monitor in her hand.
Just her and the wind.
When the jet door opened and the stairs unfolded, the first thing Nova saw was a stiletto heel.
Then the shimmer of a silk robe, red like blood, slit like sin.
Tatiana Myelov stepped into the moonlight.
She hadn’t aged a day.
Which, knowing Tatiana, probably meant she’d killed Time and made it beg for mercy.
“Darling,” Tatiana purred, sunglasses on despite the dark. “You look like war wrapped in regret.”
Nova didn’t smile.
“Did you bring the file?”
Tatiana held up a slim black case.
“I brought everything, darling. Bloodlines. Hidden children. Offshore trusts. The kind of sec
