"Fuck, it's cold."
I stood at the window of our rented cabin, watching snowflakes swirl against the backdrop of Thunder Bay's distant lights. Two weeks in Canada had done nothing to acclimate me to the brutal December temperatures that seemed to seep through every crack in the weathered wood walls.
Behind me, Dominic looked up from the laptop where he'd been working for hours, his face illuminated by the blue glow of the screen. "The locals call this 'mild' for December."
"The locals are fucking insane," I muttered, wrapping my arms around myself. "Or they're actually polar bears disguised as people."
His low chuckle warmed something inside me despite the chill. "Come here."
I crossed the small room to where he sat at the rickety table that served as our command center. Without looking away from the screen, he reached for me, pulling me onto his lap with casual strength that still made my breath catch. His body was a furnace against mine, and I immediately pressed closer, stealing his warmth.
"Any progress?" I asked, peering at the screen.
"Some." He shifted slightly, his arm circling my waist. "Andrei's contact came through with the foundation documents. Birth certificates, early school records, immigration papers from Russia to Canada ten years ago."
I studied the digital files displayed before us—the skeletal structure of our new identities. According to these records, we were now Nikolai and Elena Petrov (the irony of the surname hadn't escaped either of us), Russian immigrants who'd obtained Canadian citizenship after fleeing political persecution.
"What about bank accounts? Credit history?"
"Being built." Dominic scrolled through a complicated spreadsheet. "We'll have limited banking access by next week, complete financial history within a month."
I ran my fingers through his hair, longer now than I'd ever seen it, the black strands curling at his nape. We both looked different—necessary changes to match our identification photos and reduce the risk of recognition. My once-dark hair was now a honey blonde, cut in a practical bob that brushed my shoulders. Dominic had grown his hair and beard, the latter now trimmed to a respectable length that somehow made him look both more approachable and more dangerous.
"How's the property search going?" I asked, nodding toward another open window on the laptop showing real estate listings.
"Narrowed it down to three possibilities. All remote enough for privacy, close enough to civilization for convenience." His hand traced an absent pattern on my hip. "We can look at them tomorrow if you want."
Tomorrow. Such a simple word, yet one that had been uncertain for so long. Now we had tomorrows stretching before us—days and weeks and months where no one was hunting us, where no mission consumed our every waking hour.
It should have felt liberating. Instead, the vast emptiness of our future sometimes terrified me more than Petrov's bullets.
"Hey." Dominic's voice pulled me back, his eyes searching mine. "Where'd you go?"
I shook my head. "Just thinking."
"About?"
"What we do now." I gestured vaguely at the cabin, the computer, the snow-covered world outside. "We spent so long fighting to stay alive, to complete the mission. Now that it's done... I don't know what comes next."
His expression softened, though his eyes remained sharp, missing nothing. "What do you want to come next?"
The question caught me off guard. What did I want? For so long, my life had been defined by a single purpose—first revenge, then justice. Without that driving force, who was I?
"I don't know," I admitted, the vulnerability of the confession making my chest tight. "I've never had the luxury of wanting things beyond survival."
Dominic nodded, understanding in his eyes. "Then we figure it out together. Day by day."
His hand came up to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone with unexpected gentleness. The contrast between his tenderness and the calluses on his skin made something twist low in my belly.
"Together," I echoed, turning my face to press a kiss to his palm.
His eyes darkened, pupils expanding as I deliberately drew his thumb into my mouth, teeth grazing the pad. The instant shift in the air between us was electric—a welcome distraction from the uncertain future, a reminder of the one thing that had always made perfect sense between us.
"Val," he growled, a warning and an invitation.
I shifted on his lap, deliberately brushing against the hardness already forming beneath me. "I might not know what I want long-term, but I know exactly what I want right now."
His hands tightened on my hips, holding me still. "And what's that?"
"You." I leaned forward, my lips a breath from his. "Inside me. Making me forget everything except your name."
The restraint he'd been exercising snapped. His mouth claimed mine in a kiss that was all heat and hunger, his hands no longer gentle as they pulled me flush against him. I responded instantly, greedily, my body remembering this dance even as my mind registered the subtle differences—the scratch of his beard against my skin, the unfamiliar scent of Canadian soap mingling with his natural musk.
"Bedroom," he muttered against my mouth, already standing with me wrapped around him.
I shook my head, nipping at his lower lip. "Here. Now."
His growl of approval vibrated through me as he turned, sweeping the papers off the table with one arm and setting me on the edge. My legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer as his hands worked at the button of my jeans.
"Too many fucking clothes," he complained, yanking the denim down my legs with impatient hands.
I laughed, the sound turning to a gasp as his fingers found me, already wet and wanting. "Look who's talking."
Our hands collided as we both reached for his belt, a frantic tangle of fingers and fabric as clothes were shed with desperate efficiency. When he finally pressed against me, hot and hard and gloriously naked, I tipped my head back on a moan.
"Fuck, I need you," I breathed, digging my nails into his shoulders.
He didn't make me wait, didn't tease or draw it out. With one powerful thrust, he buried himself inside me, both of us groaning at the perfect friction. My body stretched around him, the slight burn of the sudden fullness sending sparks shooting up my spine.
"Christ, Val," he hissed, his forehead dropping to mine as he held still for a moment. "You feel so fucking good."
I rolled my hips in response, urging him to move. He complied immediately, setting a pace that was just shy of punishing, each thrust driving me closer to the edge. The table creaked beneath us, the legs scraping against the wooden floor as he drove into me again and again.
I clung to him, my fingers digging into the solid muscle of his back, my legs locked around his waist. The position pushed him impossibly deep, hitting a spot inside me that made my vision blur. Every nerve in my body seemed to center where we were joined, pleasure building in tight, hot spirals.
"Dom," I gasped, the shortened version of his name falling from my lips without thought. "I'm close—fuck—I'm so close."
His hand slid between us, thumb finding my clit with unerring accuracy. "Come for me, Val. Let me feel you."
The combination of his touch, his words, and the relentless rhythm of his hips pushed me over the edge. My orgasm crashed through me in violent waves, my body clenching around him as I cried out his name. He followed a moment later, his thrusts growing erratic before he stiffened against me, a hoarse groan torn from his throat as he found his own release.
For long moments, we stayed like that, bodies joined, breath mingling as we slowly came back to ourselves. Outside, the snow continued to fall, blanketing the world in silence. Inside, there was only the sound of our breathing and the distant crackle of the fireplace.
"Well," I finally said, my voice slightly hoarse, "that's one way to warm up."
Dominic laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest and into mine. "Always happy to help."
He withdrew carefully, both of us wincing slightly at the separation. Without the heat of passion, the room's chill quickly reasserted itself against my bare skin. I shivered, reaching for my discarded clothes.
"Shower first," Dominic suggested, already pulling me toward the small bathroom. "Then dinner."
The cabin's ancient water heater barely managed enough hot water for one person, much less two, but we'd perfected the art of the shared shower by necessity. We washed quickly, hands occasionally straying but mostly focused on the practical task of getting clean before the hot water ran out.
Afterward, wrapped in one of Dominic's sweatshirts that hung to mid-thigh on me, I watched as he moved around the small kitchen, preparing a simple meal of pasta and canned sauce. The domesticity of the scene struck me as profoundly strange—Dominic Castellano, former mafia boss, standing barefoot in a Canadian cabin cooking spaghetti.
"What?" he asked, catching my stare.
"Just... processing." I gestured vaguely at him, at the cabin, at our current reality. "Six months ago, you were running Chicago's underworld and I was plotting to kill you. Now we're in Canada, cooking dinner, applying for fishing licenses under fake names."
His lips quirked in what might have been a smile. "Life's full of surprises."
"That's putting it mildly."
He set two plates on the table, along with a bottle of cheap red wine—a far cry from the expensive vintages he would have selected in his previous life. "Regrets?"
I considered the question as I took a seat, twirling pasta around my fork. Did I regret the path that had led us here? The lives we'd left behind, the people we'd been?
"No," I said finally, realizing it was true. "I regret what it cost—Reza, the years wasted on revenge, the pain. But not where we ended up."
Something eased in his expression, a tension I hadn't fully registered until it was gone. "Good."
We ate in comfortable silence for a while, the wine warming my blood as the food filled my stomach. Outside, darkness had fallen completely, the snow visible only as swirling shadows against the window glass.
"I've been thinking," Dominic said eventually, setting down his empty glass. "About what comes next."
I raised an eyebrow, waiting.
"We need money—legitimate income that won't raise flags. The funds I transferred before we disappeared will last a year, maybe two if we're careful. After that..."
"We need jobs," I finished for him. "Normal, boring, tax-paying jobs."
"Exactly." He leaned back in his chair, eyes thoughtful. "I'm considering security consulting. Private clients, remote work when possible. My background gives me certain... specialized knowledge."
I snorted. "That's one way to put it."
"What about you?" he asked. "Any thoughts?"
I'd been avoiding this particular question, pushing it away whenever it surfaced. What skills did I have that translated to legitimate work? Dancing was out—too public, too easily recognized despite the changed hair and subtle cosmetic alterations to my face. My combat training was useful for survival but hardly resume material. The fact that I could kill a man with my bare hands or crack a sophisticated security system wasn't exactly marketable in polite society.
"I don't know," I admitted. "I don't exactly have a lot of transferable skills that don't involve breaking the law."
Dominic's eyes narrowed slightly, assessing. "That's not true. You're tactically brilliant. You think three steps ahead of everyone else in the room. You read people better than anyone I've ever met."
I shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise. "Great. I can be a mind reader at children's parties."
"Or," he countered, "you could do what your father did."
The mention of my father made me tense. "What, get myself killed investigating Russian mobsters?"
"No." His voice was patient. "He was an analyst before he was a field operative. Pattern recognition, behavioral prediction, strategic assessment. You have the same instincts, Val. I've watched you put pieces together that most people wouldn't even see."
I considered this, turning the idea over in my mind. It was true that I'd inherited my father's analytical mind—the ability to see connections where others saw only chaos. It was what had made me so effective at planning my revenge, at infiltrating Dominic's organization.
"So what—I become a consultant too? Professional paranoiac for hire?"
He smiled, a genuine one that reached his eyes. "Something like that. Corporate security assessment, maybe. Or risk analysis for insurance companies. Work that uses your brain without putting you in the spotlight."
The idea had merit. Work I could do remotely, using my natural abilities without drawing attention. And it would be a form of honoring my father's legacy without following him into an early grave.
"I'll think about it," I said, not quite ready to commit but no longer feeling quite so adrift.
Dominic nodded, satisfied. "That's all I'm asking."
After dinner, we settled on the worn couch before the fireplace, the laptop set aside for the night. Outside, the wind had picked up, howling around the eaves of the cabin like a living thing. I leaned against Dominic's side, his arm a comfortable weight across my shoulders as we watched the flames dance.
"We should check the news," I said after a while, the thought occurring suddenly. "See if there's any fallout from the evidence we transmitted."
Dominic reached for the remote, turning on the small television in the corner. We rarely watched it, partly out of caution, partly because Canadian cable offered a limited selection of channels. He flipped to a news station, the volume low.
For several minutes, there was nothing—just the usual litany of local events, weather reports, sports scores. Then, just as Dominic was about to change the channel, a familiar name caught my attention.
"Wait," I said, sitting up straighter. "Turn it up."
He did, and we both leaned forward as the anchor's voice filled the room.
"...investigation continues to expand following the arrest of Senator James Collins on charges of espionage and conspiracy. Federal authorities have now taken three more individuals into custody, including prominent defense contractor William Mercer and Deputy Director of Intelligence Robert Hayes. Sources close to the investigation suggest these arrests are connected to a broader probe into Russian influence in American politics and business..."
The screen showed footage of Collins being led away in handcuffs, his face ashen, followed by similar scenes of the other men mentioned. I recognized Collins immediately—the senator who had been at Petrov's dinner party, one of the officials implicated in the data I'd stolen.
"It worked," I breathed, a knot I hadn't known I was carrying loosening in my chest. "They're actually acting on the evidence."
Dominic's face was unreadable, but I felt the tension in his body. "They're moving faster than I expected. These aren't small fish."
The anchor continued: "FBI Director Marshall issued a statement today calling this 'one of the most significant counterintelligence operations in Bureau history.' While details remain classified, our sources indicate that evidence of a vast Russian network operating within the United States was provided to authorities by an anonymous whistleblower. The identity of this source remains unknown."
I couldn't help the small, fierce smile that curved my lips. "Anonymous whistleblower. I like the sound of that."
"Better than 'fugitives presumed dead,'" Dominic agreed dryly.
The news moved on to other stories, but we continued watching, alert for any mention of Petrov or the compound in Michigan. There was nothing, which could mean several things—either the investigation hadn't yet reached him, or his part in it was being kept quiet for strategic reasons.
Or he had escaped, slipping away before authorities could connect him to the conspiracy.
That last possibility sent an unwelcome chill down my spine. If Petrov was free, he wouldn't stop looking for us. The man had resources, connections, and now a deeply personal vendetta. The evidence we'd transmitted had destroyed years of careful work building his network. He wouldn't rest until he found the people responsible.
"Stop," Dominic said quietly, his hand covering mine where it had unconsciously tightened into a fist. "He doesn't know we're alive, much less where we are."
I glanced at him, not surprised that he'd followed my train of thought. "You don't know that. He could have sources in the FBI, people who might suspect we survived."
"Even if he does, he has bigger problems right now. His entire operation is being dismantled." Dominic's voice was calm, reasonable. "By the time he might think to look for us, our new identities will be solid. We'll be ghosts."
I wanted to believe him. Needed to believe him. But the fear that had kept me alive for so long wasn't easily dismissed.
"We should have killed him when we had the chance," I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
Dominic didn't immediately disagree, which told me the same thought had crossed his mind. "Maybe. But then the evidence might never have reached the FBI. His death would have alerted his network, given them time to cover their tracks."
He was right, of course. Logically, I knew that. But logic did little to quiet the voice in my head that whispered Petrov was still out there, still hunting.
"Hey." Dominic turned my face toward his, eyes intent on mine. "We completed the mission. Your father's work is finished. The people who killed him are either dead or will spend the rest of their lives in prison. It's over, Val."
I wanted to argue, to point out all the ways it might not be over, all the loose ends still dangling. But the certainty in his voice, the steady confidence that had carried us through impossible situations time and again, made me hesitate.
What if he was right? What if we had actually succeeded, not just in escaping but in bringing down the entire network my father had died trying to expose? What if we were truly free to start over?
The possibility was almost too much to hope for.
"I want to believe that," I said finally, my voice smaller than I intended.
Dominic's thumb traced the line of my jaw, a gesture that had become familiar, comforting. "Then believe it. One day at a time, remember?"
I nodded, leaning into his touch. "One day at a time."
He switched off the television, returning us to the quiet crackle of the fire and the moan of the wind outside. For a long while, we simply sat together, watching the flames dance and listening to the storm.
"We should look at those properties tomorrow," I said eventually, making a conscious decision to focus on the future rather than the past. "Start building something permanent."
Dominic's arm tightened around me, his lips brushing my temple. "Tomorrow, then."
Later, in the darkness of the bedroom, wrapped in blankets against the pervasive cold, I lay awake listening to Dominic's steady breathing beside me. Snow tapped against the window like ghostly fingers, the wind's voice rising and falling in eerie harmony.
In Chicago, I'd always slept with one eye open, alert for danger even in the depths of night. Here, despite the unfamiliar surroundings and the lingering fear of discovery, I found myself drifting toward true sleep, my body relaxing incrementally beside the solid warmth of Dominic's.
Perhaps it was exhaustion finally catching up to me after weeks of hypervigilance. Perhaps it was the knowledge that we'd taken every precaution, covered every track. Or perhaps it was simply that, for the first time in my adult life, I wasn't alone in my vigilance. The burden of survival was shared now, carried on two sets of shoulders instead of one.
As sleep finally claimed me, I reached for Dominic's hand beneath the covers, our fingers twining together in unconscious synchronicity. Whatever came next—whether peace or peril—we would face it together. Of that, at least, I was certain.