Adrian killed two men before sunrise.

The first died quickly.

A knife beneath the ribs. Silent. Efficient. Professional.

The second fought harder.

That one left blood on Adrian’s hands.

By the time the warehouse near Red Hook finally fell quiet, the East River wind carried the metallic smell of gunpowder and fresh blood through the docks. Broken cargo crates littered the concrete while snowmelt mixed with red beneath flickering industrial lights.

One of Luca’s captains cursed nearby while dragging a body toward the water.

“Fucking amateurs,” the man muttered. “They were carrying Serbian weapons. This is getting political.”

Adrian wiped blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand and said nothing.

Politics meant escalation.

Escalation meant instability.

Instability got civilians killed first.

And lately, all he could think about was her.

A dangerous problem.

He checked the magazine in his handgun automatically before holstering it beneath his coat. His shoulder burned where a bullet had grazed him during the firefight, but the wound looked shallow enough to ignore for now.

Pain barely registered anymore unless it became catastrophic.

One of the younger guards approached nervously. “Volkov, Luca wants everyone back at the penthouse.”

Adrian looked toward the dark river instead. “Tell him I’m handling cleanup.”

The younger man hesitated. “He sounded serious.”

“So do I.”

That ended the conversation.

The guard disappeared quickly after that.

Adrian remained near the docks another minute, staring out across the black water while cold wind moved through the harbor.

He could still hear Luca’s voice from earlier in the office.

You look at her like you’re trying not to.

The problem was—

Luca wasn’t wrong.

Adrian exhaled slowly and finally headed toward the black SUV waiting near the warehouse entrance.

Twenty minutes later, Manhattan blurred past outside rain-streaked windows while dawn slowly crept across the skyline in pale gray light. The city looked exhausted at this hour. Empty intersections. Delivery trucks. Street cleaners washing away evidence of whatever happened overnight.

New York always cleaned itself quickly.

That was part of its charm.

Adrian drove downtown instead of returning to the penthouse.

The church sat quietly between two aging brick buildings on the Lower East Side, half-hidden behind scaffolding and old iron fencing. Most people barely noticed it anymore.

Adrian preferred it that way.

He parked across the street and remained inside the SUV for several seconds before finally stepping out into the freezing morning air.

The church doors creaked softly when he entered.

Warm candlelight flickered against stained glass windows while silence settled heavily through the empty sanctuary. The smell of incense and old wood lingered faintly in the air.

No priests.

No worshippers.

Just quiet.

Adrian moved slowly down the center aisle, boots echoing softly against ancient stone floors. Blood still stained the cuff of his black coat despite his attempt to clean it.

He stopped near the front pews and sat heavily for the first time all night.

Only then did the exhaustion hit properly.

His shoulder burned harder now.

The adrenaline was fading.

He reached beneath his coat carefully and peeled back the blood-soaked fabric near the wound. The bullet had torn through the outer edge of muscle instead of fully penetrating, but it still looked ugly enough to require stitches eventually.

Adrian barely noticed.

Instead, he stared silently toward the altar.

People expected churches to make men like him uncomfortable.

That was the irony.

Churches never frightened Adrian.

People did.

He leaned forward slowly, forearms resting against his knees while blood dripped quietly from his fingertips onto the wooden floor beneath him.

Years ago, during another war in another country, a priest once told him something after a massacre near Donetsk.

God forgives soldiers differently.

Adrian never figured out whether that was meant to comfort him.

The church remained silent around him.

No miracles.

No absolution.

Just candlelight flickering against stained glass while exhaustion settled deeper into his bones.

His thoughts drifted anyway.

Not toward the men he killed tonight.

Toward Valentina.

Toward the bruises hidden beneath silk sleeves.

Toward the way she looked at him after the hotel attack, eyes sharp with suspicion instead of fear.

Toward the office.

Toward the moment Luca grabbed her wrist hard enough to leave marks.

Adrian closed his eyes briefly.

That had been dangerous.

Not Luca’s violence.

His own reaction to it.

Years of training had built control into his body like concrete. Controlled breathing. Controlled movement. Controlled emotion.

But the second Luca hurt her—

Adrian moved without thinking.

That mistake could get them both killed.

A faint sound interrupted the silence behind him.

Footsteps.

Soft.

Measured.

Adrian’s hand moved toward his weapon instantly before he recognized the old priest approaching from the side hallway.

Father Morelli looked approximately eighty years old and perpetually exhausted by humanity.

“You’re bleeding again,” the priest said calmly.

Adrian relaxed slightly and removed his hand from the gun beneath his coat. “Good morning to you too.”

The old man sat beside him slowly with visible effort. “You only come here after violence.”

“That’s not true.”

Father Morelli glanced toward the blood dripping from Adrian’s sleeve. “Would you like me to list examples?”

Adrian almost smiled despite himself.

Almost.

The priest studied him quietly for a moment before speaking again. “You look tired.”

“I am tired.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

No.

It wasn’t.

Father Morelli had known Adrian long enough to recognize the difference between physical exhaustion and something deeper.

The priest’s gaze shifted toward the wound. “You should go to a hospital.”

“I’d rather be shot again.”

“That can probably be arranged.”

A quieter laugh escaped Adrian this time.

The old priest handed him a clean cloth from inside his robe. Adrian pressed it against the wound automatically while staring toward the candles near the altar.

“You killed someone tonight,” Father Morelli said gently.

“Yes.”

“More than one?”

Adrian remained silent.

The priest sighed softly. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Neither spoke for several moments after that.

Rain began tapping lightly against the stained glass windows while morning light slowly brightened the church interior.

Then Father Morelli asked quietly, “And what’s troubling you more than the killing?”

That question finally pulled Adrian’s eyes away from the altar.

Because the honest answer came immediately.

Not the blood.

Not the violence.

Not even Luca.

Her.

Always her now.

The priest watched his expression carefully before understanding settled slowly across his face.

“Ah,” Father Morelli murmured. “A woman.”

Adrian looked away again.

“That obvious?”

“To someone old enough? Yes.”

The priest folded his hands together calmly. “Does she know what you are?”

“No.”

“Do you want her to?”

Adrian stared silently at the candles burning near the altar.

Then finally answered with brutal honesty.

“No.”

Father Morelli nodded slowly. “Because she’ll leave?”

“No,” Adrian said quietly.

The church fell silent again.

Then Adrian finished in a voice rougher than before.

“Because she won’t.”