Three weeks was all it took for Iris’s life to get back to its old normal.

The life she’d tried to lead before the Wraiths had called her back in … before Synek.

More than anything, she couldn’t get him off her mind. Whether she was asleep, dreaming memories of his torture and waking with a start, or when she was able to drift back off and she thought of that night at the Hall and how different things might have been if he hadn’t been a job and she didn’t have other priorities.

Unfortunately, thoughts of him weren’t limited to just when she was unconscious. She thought of him when she was awake and allowed her mind to wander for even a second. It was ridiculous, considering not just the way they’d met, but how it had ended.

When he was in that room, he’d made it abundantly clear that he would see her dead the minute he was able, and she doubted he would bend on that just because she’d ultimately helped him get away from the Wraiths.

Which now meant she had two targets on her back, neither of which she should have courted.

Her endgame counted on her being here, in New York, and even if it was more dangerous for her—even if she had to work three times as hard not to be found—she would do what she had to.

Iris had already taken enough risks with her plan already. She couldn’t chance losing the man she was after now.

That was why, the minute she’d left the Wraith compound behind, she went back to her hotel and grabbed the thumb drive with everything she needed on it and a backpack filled with necessities.

She had known, though she hadn’t any idea when, the day would come when she would need to run and do it quickly. That was the wisdom her mother had engrained in her during the few years she, Iris, and Marvin had attempted to be a real family.

She hadn’t known then that her mother would take her own advice and have a bag packed for when she could no longer handle being a mother and a wife.

Six months … she’d made it six months before she bailed.

But as annoyed as Iris had wanted to be with her mother for abandoning her again, she couldn’t.

She was who she was.

At the very least, she’d gotten six months.

And ultimately, her advice had come in handy when she needed it.

It hadn’t taken long for her to find a tiny little apartment in the Bronx, one that she was able to snag without offering any real paperwork so long as she paid the rent and a hefty deposit upfront.

Considering how much Rosalie had paid her to get to Synek, Iris didn’t wince at handing over the money for once. Besides, she would hopefully only need it for a few months at most. After that, she was planning on getting the hell out of New York without looking back.

She just had a few things she had to handle first …

For three weeks, Iris sat in her new apartment, printing out every shred of information she had and tacking it to the wall. From one end to the next, she connected articles to pictures to handwritten notes with yards of red string until she had a clear picture of everything as it was meant to be read.

To anyone else, it might have looked like the visual representation of a chaotic mind, but to her… she saw a story.

One born of corruption and greed.

One that led to the incarceration of a good man.

One that had surpassed the reach of a few street level soldiers. She’d followed this all the way to the top—all the way to the man who was ultimately responsible for what happened to her family.

Governor Michael Spader.

It had taken her years to connect it back to him. To realize that everything—from the bad shooting that ultimately took her father’s badge, to the bounty he was never meant to collect and his death because of it, and the actual people responsible for shooting the man her father was accused of killing—led back to him.

But once she had his name, Iris vowed never to forget it.

She vowed that soon, The New York Times would have his name printed on the front, and he would lose everything, just as her father had.

She didn’t know when, or even how, but she would ensure this happened.

Speaking of …

Rubbing the towel over her damp hair, Iris tapped the front of her phone to light up the screen and check the time. If she wasn’t careful, she would be late for her appointment.

Even before Rosalie had momentarily knocked her off track, Iris had finally started digging into the governor’s life, following the information she’d procured laboriously over the past two years to put together a schedule for him.

It hadn’t taken her long to figure out the man’s routine. From his work meetings, to his afternoon golf sessions, the occasional sports game, and late dinners with his life in their brownstone on the Upper West Side.

Every place he visited was on the up-and-up … every place except the French fine dining restaurant in Lower Manhattan where he went every other Tuesday. It was the sort of place that required a reservation, one notoriously hard to get, considering Iris had tried to get a table one of the days while the governor was inside.

But thankfully, Spader had made it easy on her, always picking one of the white wrought-iron tables on the balcony. The vines winding around the rails nearly obstructed him from view, but Iris had a special long-range camera that could see him just fine.

And the woman who wasn’t his wife always joined him.

She couldn’t be much older than Iris, maybe even a few years younger, but unlike Iris, her face split into a wide grin whenever Michael joined her at their table.

She was actually happy to be around him.

Poor, naïve girl.

It was to this restaurant that Iris was now going as she tugged on a pair of panties and a bra, then her clothes before searching the closet floor for her favorite booties.

Before, she had placed cameras around to track the governor when she couldn’t, but sometimes, the footage got corrupted or something blocked the view and any new details were lost. Now, though, she could see everything firsthand.

She could get closer or farther away as needed, and she had plenty of film with her.

His end was coming.

* * *

“Maybe you should take it easy, Syn. In case you forgot, you’re still recovering.”

No, Synek hadn’t forgotten, even if he wanted to. In the three weeks it had been since the Wraiths had him, he’d gotten well acquainted with the cuts and bruises that littered his body, and the starkness of his ribs after going without food for so long.

But that was before, back when Winter and her merry band of fucking Romanians had brought him back to the loft and refused to let him leave.

The first week, he hadn’t been able to put up much of a fight, not in his state, but as he healed, he’d grown more ready to leave by the day. It wasn’t personal—the Wild Bunch made it a point to steer clear of him—but the thought of owing them for this didn’t sit well with him.

He’d expected them to maintain the attitudes they always had since the moment they’d been introduced, but instead, they watched him like he was a leashed wild animal seconds from attacking.

Though, of all of them, Winter’s Romanian didn’t look as mistrusting as he usually did. He looked rather more … understanding.

But that was something Synek didn’t want from him.

“I’m fine,” he said without looking up, searching for the pack of cigarettes he was sure he’d tossed on the bedside table the night before, though they were nowhere to be found.

Had they been back in London, Winter might have let him be—at least for longer than the five seconds it took before she spoke again. “You almost died, Syn. They tortured you.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he muttered, slapping his hand down on the nightstand as he straightened. “Where are my smokes?”

“Synek, I’m serious.”

He could count on one hand the number of times Winter had ever raised her voice at him, and usually, it was during one of his benders when he went so far off the deep end, she worried whether he had any intention of coming back.

He could count on less than two fingers the number of times she’d ever used his full name.

For the first time since she’d entered his borrowed room, he turned to look at her—actually look at her—and noted the dark shadows beneath her eyes. The way her usually carefully styled hair was in a lackluster bun.

She looked weary and nothing like herself.

He was responsible for that.

“Come now, little miss. I’m fine.” This time, he attempted to soften his tone as he pulled her to him, wanting to wipe that worry and fear off her face. “I’m still right here.”

“Yeah, but for how long? You’ve been running from the Wraiths since we met. I don’t think if they catch you a second time, they’ll be willing to torture you again. They’ll just kill you.”

She wasn’t wrong. “That’s why I need to take care of this.”

“But you can’t do it on your own,” she said with a shake of her head. “Let me help you.”

“I can’t have that, Winter. If any of them hurt you in any way, I wouldn’t react well. You know that.”

He wished the look of disappointment on her face wasn’t a common one when it came to him, but beyond the fleeting moments of happiness—most of which came when she was younger and easily impressed—this was all he’d ever been able to give her.

And knowing that was how he realized she would never be happy with him as a partner. He was a selfish bastard through and through, and even though he loved her more than he loved himself, sometimes love wasn’t enough.

And despite what she liked to think, her love, platonic or otherwise, would never be able to fix him.

“Then call one of the mercenaries and have them watch your back. At least have some sort of support there. I can be here with schematics and things. Safe, but helping.”

Knowing she would never take no for an answer, he lied to appease her. “I’ll call Red. I’m sure he’d like to get in on it.”

Her shoulders visibly relaxed, her relief obvious. “Good. That’s good.”

“Now, my smokes?”

“Yeah, fine. If you must.”

She turned to the door as Synek did the same, neither of them realizing Tăcut had been standing there watching them. His expression was unreadable, but Synek could guess what the other man was thinking.

They were too close.

The line between him and Winter had always been a blurry one, made more so because it wasn’t a secret to anyone—except to Synek for a while—that Winter had had romantic feelings toward him, and during one night of drunken stupidity, he’d slept with her back in his flat in London.

He hadn’t wanted to admit at the time that Winter’s feelings weren’t innocent. He’d seen the signs, but keeping her close had been the only thing he’d cared about. He wanted her to himself.

Coincidentally, that was right before she’d met the Romanian currently staring him down.

Winter touched his chest as she swept by him, but he didn’t follow behind her as she left. Instead, he remained in the mouth of the door.

Synek grabbed the bag filled with his things from the floor and slung it over his shoulder. “Listen, mate, let’s not have a row, yeah? I feel like shit, and I’m not in the mood for the silent treatment, you get me?”

Tăcut’s inability to speak was known to most, but if Synek’s dig at it bothered him, he didn’t show it.

He started to sign, his hands making gestures Synek wouldn’t understand even if he wanted to. “I’m not going to understand that. Winter learned because she’s a bleeding heart and knew a bloke back in Arizona.”

“That’s what I’m here for, asshole.”

Fang.

As much of a surly bastard as Red used to be before he met his wife, Fang had a perpetual chip on his shoulder. Though, if the rumors were true, he had someone too. Except he was still a little cunt.

“As much as I’d love a good fight,” Synek said as he rubbed the back of his neck, already feeling his sore muscles, “I’m not in the mood, so I’m liable to just shoot one of you fuckers if it means I can leave this room.”

Neither looked particularly bothered by his words and seemed to wait for him to finish speaking before Răzvan started signing again, and Fang translated.

“As stupid as you usually are, this is new, even for you. You’re going to get yourself killed going after whoever they were in your current state.”

Synek ground his teeth. The last thing he needed was someone pointing out his weaknesses. “I’ve taken on blokes twice your size with double your skill with my arm broken. I don’t need you lot concerned about me.”

“I don’t,” Fang said, with the same level of dryness reflected on Tăcut’s face. “But it’ll break her heart if something happens to you. Even if you brought it on yourself.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, thanks.”

Răzvan stepped toward him, brought up short when Fang stretched an arm out in front of him.

“Do you even give a shit that you’re hurting her? You get that, don’t you?”

No, he understood that very well.

He just didn’t know any other way of being.

“If you’re done …”

He didn’t look as if he was remotely finished, but Winter was back, looking among the three of them with narrowed eyes as if she sensed the growing agitation.

“Here,” she said, offering him the small bag she carried.

Synek offered a soft thanks before peeking inside, finding his smokes and a rubber band wrapped around a freshly printed passport, license, and an assortment of other identifications should he need them.

“I will call Red to see if you talked to him,” she warned, “so don’t think you’re going to walk out of here and that’ll be the end of it.”

He knew she would, not that it mattered.

Because once he walked out of this loft, he had no intention of ever stepping foot back inside.