“Mr. Safonov…” Haley’s voice stops me at the threshold. When I turn, she’s clutching her son to her side, tears still streaming. “Thank you.”
I wish she’d said “f**k you” instead. At least that I would have understood.
Outside, Taras shoves Devon into the SUV’s trunk—not the backseat, the trunk—and slams it shut. The sound echoes through suburbia’s dull silence.
“What the f**k was that, man?” Taras rounds on me the second we’re in the vehicle. “Since when do we leave witnesses? Since when do we do mercy?!”
“Since I decided to.”
“That’s not an answer!”
Mikayla starts the engine, pulling away from the curb smooth as silk. In the rearview mirror, I watch the colonial shrink. Haley stands framed in the doorway, son in her arms, watching us steal her husband.
“He has information,” I say
