Chapter 3

Evelyn's POV

I put the phone in my coat pocket. It felt heavy against my ribs. Thirty missions. Five years. So many deaths. And now, finally, freedom was possible. If I could kill one more man. If I could go back to New York. If I could see Adrian again without falling apart.

"Understood," I said. My voice was steady.

Viktor looked at me for a long moment. His good eye was sharp. "You were always one of the best. Cold enough to do what's necessary. Smart enough to survive. Don't fuck it up now by getting sentimental."

After he left, I stood alone in the snow. I watched the sky change from black to purple. Somewhere in the darkness, the sun was starting to rise. By the time it came up, I'd be gone. Transport to Moscow, then a flight to New York. Back to the life I'd been torn away from five years ago.

Back as Mrs. Winthrop. The widow. The woman who'd married a man thirty years older in what everyone thought was a business deal. Who'd been conveniently absent for five years, supposedly studying in Russia.

No one knew about Vorkuta. No one knew about the blood on my hands. No one knew about the nightmares that still woke me up gasping.

And no one could ever know.

Eighteen hours later, I walked out of customs at JFK Terminal 4. I pulled a black Rimowa suitcase behind me. My body was exhausted from the flight. But my mind was still working, cataloging everything. Exits. Security positions. Potential threats. The habits from Vorkuta didn't go away.

I'd changed clothes on the plane. Black Max Mara coat. Black turtleneck. Dark jeans that looked expensive. My hair was in a low ponytail. Minimal makeup. Just enough to look like I was grieving without overdoing it.

The arrivals area was chaos. Families hugging and crying. Business people on their phones. The sound of rolling luggage and announcements was overwhelming after Vorkuta's silence. My eyes swept the crowd automatically. Threats. Exits. TSA officers at three o'clock. A couple embracing at nine o'clock. Then I saw it.

The sign.

White cardboard. Black marker. Held by a middle-aged driver in a black suit. Ex-military posture. The sign said: MRS. WINTHROP.

I stopped walking. My suitcase wheels locked against the floor with a sharp sound. People moved around me. I just stood there, staring at those two words.

Mrs. Winthrop.

The name I'd carried for eight years but never felt was mine. The identity that was supposed to protect me but became another kind of prison instead.

I was eighteen when my mother was murdered. She owed money to the mob—student loans she couldn't repay, debts that piled up faster than she could work. They'd used drugs to control her. Forced her into prostitution. But even in the worst times, she never hit me. Never blamed me. She kept me safe as long as she could.

Until the day the mob decided she was too old. That I was worth more.

She fought back when they came for me. They killed her for it. I ran. Stumbled into the street, barely seeing through my tears. Arthur's car almost hit me. He stopped. Offered money to buy my freedom.

But the mob didn't want money. They wanted me. Young. Pretty. More useful than cash, they said.

So Arthur told them his wife had died six months ago. He needed a new wife. Would they do him the courtesy of letting him marry me instead?

They took his money and left.

A wealthy man's act of mercy for a desperate girl. He was forty-eight. I was eighteen. He pitied me. I was grateful—so grateful it felt like drowning. That was all. There was no room for anything else. No love. No intimacy. Just his compassion and my debt.

Except I fell in love with his son.

The memory hit hard. Twenty-one years old. Spring sunlight in the Winthrop greenhouse. Adrian's hands showing me how to prune roses. His fingers brushing mine. The electric shock of contact that made my breath catch. The way he'd looked at me with those blue eyes and smiled. I'd thought—stupidly—that maybe this was allowed. Maybe this could be real.

Arthur had noticed. Of course he had. He'd built an empire by reading people.

Within a week, I was on a plane to Russia. Supposedly for graduate school. Actually for exile. The family couldn't handle the scandal. The young wife falling for the son. The stepmother wanting her stepson. Better to remove the problem quietly.

Arthur had said it was an opportunity. My mother got pregnant with me while studying in Russia. She didn't know until after she'd returned to America. By then, she couldn't contact my father. Arthur said I could use this time to find him.

I never tried. What was the point? A grown daughter he'd never met wouldn't be a welcome surprise.

Viktor found me on a street corner in Moscow. I was half-frozen. I'd refused to spend more of Arthur's money. I knew Adrian and I were impossible now. I held my mother's necklace in my fist and thought maybe dying wouldn't be so bad. Maybe I could see her again.

But Viktor gave me a reason to live. He said: "Those people killed your mother. You can't let them get away with it."

The deal was simple. They'd train me for free. Give me food, shelter, weapons. Teach me how to take revenge. In exchange, I'd complete thirty missions for them. After that, we'd be even.

And now Arthur was dead. I was Mrs. Winthrop for real. The widow. The woman coming back to bury her husband and claim her inheritance. The identity felt wrong, like wearing someone else's skin.

I made myself move. I rolled the suitcase toward the driver. He saw me coming. His expression shifted to professional sympathy. "Mrs. Winthrop, I'm very sorry for your loss."

"Thank you." The words came out smooth and empty. "Where's the car?"

"This way, please."

He led me through the terminal. Past security. Out into the December night. New York cold was different from Vorkuta's. Wet instead of dry. Sharp instead of crushing.

The air smelled like jet fuel and exhaust and that city smell of too many people in too little space. Christmas decorations were everywhere. Gold tinsel. LED lights. Huge fake trees. "Jingle Bells" played from hidden speakers. The whole world celebrating while I walked through it like a ghost.

We came to the pickup area. A black Bentley Mulsanne sat at the curb. The license plate said WTH-1918. Winthrop, established 1918. I recognized the car immediately. Arthur's personal vehicle. The one he only used for family or the most important people. The one that said you matter.

Why would they send Arthur's car for me?

Something felt wrong. My instincts from five years of survival were screaming. But the driver was already opening the rear door. I couldn't stand in the cold asking questions without looking suspicious.

I bent to get in the car.

That's when I saw him.

Adrian sat in the back seat.