Chapter seven

Lila

The sky is still very darkwhen we leave the house.

I’m in Ethan’s black hoodie, its sleeves are pushed to my elbows, the raven on my wrist still wet from the spray paint. He’s in black cargo pants,black boots and a shoulder holster with two guns. I'm taking in the view and I love it, i smile to myself and giggle a bit, the goal was to seduce him and now I'm shooting at bad guys with him. Take that Celeste.

We take the Mustang and the engine snarls awake, gravel crunching under the tires. Ethan drives with one hand on the wheel, the other on my thigh, his thumb stroking the bruise he left there last night. I don’t move it. I need him, he's like drugs.

The pier in is a rotting skeleton twenty miles east. We’ll be early. Good. Let them think we’re desperate.

We’re not.

“Rules,” Ethan says, eyes on the road. “You stay behind me. You see a weapon, you shoot. No hesitation.”

I check the Glock he gave me. Safety off. Mag full. “I hesitate, I die. Got it, You're quite the bad Influence Ethan Grant"

He smiles and glances at me. “You’re not dying.”

“Neither are you.”

He squeezes my thigh. “Good girl.”

I roll my eyes but heat pools low in my belly. Focus, Lila.

We park half a mile out, kill the engine. The wind off the water is brutal, slicing through the hoodie and I'm freezing. Ethan pulls a ski mask from the glovebox, hands me another. I tug it on. The world narrows to eyeholes and breath.I totally feel like a bad guy in a movie.

The tide is out, exposing rusted pilings and the bones of old boats. No sign of the SUV. No footprints but ours.

Ethan crouches behind a concrete barrier, pulls me down with him. “They’ll come from the east. Sun at their backs.”

I nod and Scan the horizon. Nothing but gulls and the endless churn of the Atlantic.

Minutes crawl. My knees ache. The cold seeps into my bones.

Then we hear an engine. The black SUV appears in the distance . It stops fifty yards out. Two men exit. They have the same build as Viktor. One carries a metal case. The other, a rifle.

Ethan’s hand finds mine and he squeezes it once to remind me that I'm not alone.

The man with the case raises a megaphone. His Voice is distorted.

“Grant. Send the woman. Alone.”

Ethan stands up slowly. Hands visible. “You want the drive, you come get it.”

A pause. Then the rifleman raises his weapon.

I move before Ethan can stop me. Step out from cover, gun at my side. “You want me?” I call. “Earn it.”

The megaphone crackles. “Walk forward. Ten paces.”

I do. One. Two. Three. Ethan’s growl is audible behind me. I don’t look back.

At ten, I stop. “Drive’s in my pocket. Trade for the girl you think you’re here for.”

The case man laughs. “No trade. You come. Or we take it forcefully.”

I smile under the mask. “Try.”

Ethan’s voice cuts through the wind. “Now.”

The shot is deafening.

A third man, who was previously hidden, drops with a hole in his forehead. Blood flows on the sand. The rifleman spins, searching for who aimed. Another shot and his knee explodes. He screams and collapses.

The case man drops the megaphone and pulls a pistol. Ethan is already moving already. I raise my Glock, and fire twice. One bullet clips the case man’s shoulder. He stumbles but doesn’t fall.

Ethan tackles him and fists fly and bone cracks. The pistol skitters across the pier. I run, boots pounding across rotten wood. The rifleman is crawling for his weapon. I kick it into the water.

Ethan has the case man by the throat, face down in the sand. “Who sent you?” he snarls.

The man spits blood. “You know who.”

“Say it.”

“Romanov.”

Ethan’s fist freezes mid-air. “Romanov’s dead.”

“Not the father. The son.”

I kneel beside them, press my gun to the man’s temple. “Drive. Now.”

He laughs bitterly. “You think this ends with me?”

Ethan rips open the case. Inside were stacks of cash, a burner phone, and a single photograph of me, asleep in the Hamptons bed, knife at my throat. Same as the Polaroid.

My stomach drops.

Ethan’s face goes feral. He grabs the burner, smashes it against the pier. Plastic shatters.

“Tell Romanov,” he says, voice deadly calm, “next time he wants to play, he comes himself.”

He shoots the man in the thigh. Not fatal. Just enough to remember.

We leave them bleeding. The third man is already dead. We drag the bodies to the SUV, dump them in the trunk. Ethan hotwires it, drives it into the surf until the water swallows the taillights. Evidence gone.

Back at the Mustang, I’m shaking. Not fear but pure rage.

Ethan pulls me into his chest. “Breathe.”

I do. His heartbeat steadies me.

“Romanov’s son,” I say. “You knew him?”

Ethan’s jaw tightens. “College. He lent me startup cash. I paid it back with interest. He thinks there’s more.”

I pull back. “How much more?”

“Everything.”

I smile. “Then we take it from him first.”

Ethan’s eyes darken. “You’re not wrong.”

We drive back in silence. The sun is already coming up, turning the ocean gold. My phone buzzes from anunknown number. I show Ethan.

Text:Midnight is a deadline. Bring the woman or the house burns.

Ethan deletes it. “They’re bluffing.”

“Are they?”

He doesn’t answer.

We reach the estate. The gate is open. Tire tracks in the snow are fresh but not ours.

Ethan kills the engine. Pulls both guns. “Stay close.”

We move.

The front door is ajar. Inside, the air smells wrong, it smellls like gasoline and smoke. The living room is trashed. The couch is slashed. Art ripped from walls. My sketchbooks are piled in the fireplace, doused in accelerant. A single matchstick lies on top.

Ethan’s face is stone. He checks the kitchen. The island is smeared with blood. A message carved into the marble:MIDNIGHT.

I touch it. The cuts are deep.

Upstairs, the bedroom is worse. Sheets shredded. Mattress gutted. The mirror I cracked with the pen is shattered completely. In the shards, someone wrote in lipstick: TICK TOCK MRS. GRANT.

Ethan’s hands shake as he pulls me to him. “Safe room. Now.”

I resist. “We fight.”

“They’ll burn the house with us in it.”

I look around,at the home we built, the walls I painted, the bed where we broke and remade each other.

“Let them try.”

He cups my face. “Lila.”

I kiss him. Hard. “We end this tonight.”

We gear up again. More guns. Knives. The brass knuckles. I find my spray paint, shake the can. Ethan watches me paint a raven on the hallway wall

“For them,” I say.

He nods. “For us.”

We set traps. Tripwires in the foyer. Gasoline trails from the fireplace to the deck. We work in silence.

At 11:47 p.m., the cameras catch movement. Three SUVs. Six men that are obviously armed.

Ethan pulls me to the safe room. “Last chance.”

I lock the door behind us. The steel seals with a hiss. Inside: monitors anx a single bottle of Whisky. I pour two fingers each.

“To midnight,” I say.

He clinks his glass to mine. “To war.”

The first explosion rocks the house at 11:59.

The monitors show flames licking the foyer, men screaming as tripwires snap. Another blast, there goes the deck. Gasoline ignites like a dragon’s breath.

We watch them burn.

At 12:07, the feed goes black.

Ethan pulls me into his lap. “Day seven.”

I straddle him, fists in his hair. “Twenty-three left.”

Outside, the house roars.inside, we kiss like the world is ending.

Because it is.

And we’re just getting started