I should have left.
That's what every cop instinct told me. Walk out the door. Get in my car. Go home. Pretend I never met Alexei Volkov.
But I didn't move.
He was standing by the window, watching the street below. His back was to me. His shoulders were tight, like he was expecting someone to burst through the door at any moment.
"You should go," he said without turning around.
"Probably."
"But you're not going to."
"No."
He turned. His grey eyes found mine. In the dim light of the apartment, they looked almost silver.
"Why not?" he asked.
Because I wanted to understand him. Because I wanted to know why a man raised to kill had saved my life. Because when he looked at me, I didn't feel afraid.
I felt seen.
"You said you'd tell me everything," I said. "Start talking."
He walked to the closet. The one with the guns. I tensed, my hand hovering near my hip.
He didn't reach for a weapon. He pulled out a folder. Thick. Heavy. Worn at the edges, like someone had opened it a thousand times.
He tossed it on the table between us.
"Open it."
I opened it.
Photos. Dozens of them. My father leaving his house. My father entering the police station. My father eating at his favorite restaurant. My father walking alone at night, his hands in his pockets, his head down.
Dates. Times. Locations. Handwritten notes in the margins.
Morning routine. 6:15 AM. Leaves house. Drives to station.
Lunch. 12:30 PM. Same diner. Same table.
Evening walk. 8:45 PM. Three blocks. Always alone.
My stomach turned.
"You've been watching him," I said.
"For months."
"Months?"
"Years." He sat down across from me, his knees almost touching mine. "I've been watching your father since I was old enough to hold a gun. Since I was old enough to understand what hate meant."
I slammed the folder shut. "Why?"
"Because my father told me to. Because I wanted to find his weakness. Because I wanted to know when he was most vulnerable. When he was alone. When he was scared." He paused. "Because I wanted to kill him."
My hands were shaking. I pressed them flat on the table to steady them.
"And now?"
"Now I want to keep him alive."
I stood up. Pushed my chair back. Paced the room. Three steps one way. Three steps back.
"You expect me to trust you? You've been stalking my father for years. You have photos of him eating breakfast. You know when he takes his evening walk."
"I expect you to listen."
"Then talk faster."
He stood up. Walked to the wall of monitors. The screens flickered to life, showing security feeds from around the city. Street corners. Parking lots. The front of the police station.
He tapped a few keys. A photo appeared on the largest screen.
A man. Mid-forties. Cropped hair. Cold eyes. A scar ran from his temple to his jaw.
"This is Dimitri Volkov. My half-brother." Alexei's voice was flat. Empty. "He's been planning to kill your father for six months. He has a sniper. A former military shooter named Viktor Sokolov. Clean record. No connections. Impossible to trace."
Another photo appeared. A man in a police uniform. Familiar face. I had seen him in the hallway. In the break room. At my father's side.
"Detective Marcus Webb," I said.
"The inside man. He'll disable the security cameras at the gala. He'll make sure the rooftop is unguarded. He'll walk the sniper right to the perfect position."
I stared at the screen. "My father trusts him."
"Your father trusts everyone. That's what makes him a good man. And that's what's going to get him killed."
"Then we warn him."
"We can't."
I spun around. "Why not?"
Alexei turned to face me. His expression was calm, but his eyes were hard.
"Because if we warn your father, he'll investigate. He'll talk to Webb. Webb will warn Dimitri. Dimitri will change the plan. And next time, we won't see it coming."
I felt sick. My stomach churned. My chest felt tight.
"So what do we do?"
"We stop the sniper ourselves. Tomorrow night. At the gala."
"You're asking me to break every oath I've ever taken."
"I'm asking you to save your father's life."
I looked at the photos on the screen. At the folder on the table. At the man standing in front of me, his grey eyes never leaving mine.
He was asking for trust. For faith. For something I wasn't sure I could give.
"One more thing," I said.
"Anything."
"If you're lying to me, if any of this is a trap, I will kill you myself. I don't care how fast you are. I don't care how many guns you have. I will find a way."
He didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Didn't smile.
"You won't have to," he said. "Because I'm not lying."
I held his gaze for a long moment. The rain tapped against the window. The monitors hummed in the background.
Then I nodded.
"Okay," I said. "Tell me the rest."