"We're being followed."
Dominic's voice cut through the tranquil morning air, slicing away the brief illusion of peace we'd found during our night crossing of Lake Michigan. I'd been standing at the rail of the yacht, watching the sunrise paint the sky in shades of crimson and gold, my fingers wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee.
So much for our clean getaway.
I turned to face him, searching his expression for any sign of panic. There was none. Just the cool, calculating assessment of a man who'd spent his life anticipating threats.
"FBI or Russians?" I asked, setting my mug down on a nearby table.
"Coast Guard vessel about three miles back." He handed me a pair of binoculars. "But there's a smaller craft shadowing it. Not standard issue."
I raised the binoculars, scanning the horizon until I spotted the white Coast Guard cutter slicing through the water. Just as Dominic had said, a sleek black speedboat followed in its wake, keeping pace but maintaining distance.
"Russians," I concluded, lowering the binoculars. "The feds would coordinate with Coast Guard, not trail them."
Dominic nodded, his jaw tight. "Petrov's men. They must have had someone watching the harbors."
"How did they find us so quickly?" The question was rhetorical. We both knew the answer.
"Your father's journal." Dominic moved to the helm, adjusting our course slightly. "The evidence you sent to the FBI implicates Petrov directly. He can't afford to let either of us live now."
"Fuck." I raked a hand through my hair, mentally calculating our options. "What's the plan?"
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "You assuming I have one?"
"You always have a plan."
He checked the navigation system, tapping a few commands into the screen. "There's a private marina about twenty miles up the coast. Friend of a friend. We can dock there, switch to a car I have waiting."
Of course he had a car waiting. Of course he had connections even in Michigan. I shouldn't have been surprised, but the extent of his contingency planning still impressed me.
"How long until we reach it?"
"At this speed, forty minutes." He glanced back at our pursuers. "But they'll catch us before then if we don't change tactics."
I followed his gaze. The black speedboat had pulled ahead of the Coast Guard vessel and was gaining on us rapidly. The distance between us had already shrunk to maybe two miles.
"We can't outrun them in this," I observed. The yacht was luxurious but built for comfort, not speed.
"No." Dominic's eyes met mine, a dangerous gleam sparking in their depths. "But we can outthink them."
He pulled me toward the yacht's cabin, descending the stairs into the main living area. With swift, economical movements, he opened a hidden compartment beneath one of the couches, revealing an arsenal that would have made a military unit envious.
"Choose your weapon," he said, selecting a matte black pistol for himself and checking the magazine with practiced ease.
I opted for a compact Sig Sauer and a serrated combat knife that I strapped to my thigh. The familiar weight of weapons against my body centered me, bringing clarity to the chaotic swirl of thoughts.
"What's the play?" I asked as he handed me a bulletproof vest.
"They'll expect us to keep running." He pulled on his own vest, then shrugged into a lightweight jacket to conceal it. "Instead, we're going to bring the fight to them."
"You want to engage a boat full of Russian killers?" I raised an eyebrow. "That's suicide."
"Not if we control the battlefield." He tapped a panel on the wall, revealing a screen displaying the yacht's systems. "This boat has a few modifications the previous owner didn't know about."
I watched as he accessed a submenu labeled "countermeasures." A list of options appeared that definitely weren't standard features on a luxury yacht.
"Smoke screens, remote navigation, false heat signatures..." I read aloud, impressed despite myself. "You've been planning this escape for a while."
"Years." His fingers moved across the screen, programming a sequence. "I've had this vessel ready since the day I promised your father I'd keep you safe."
The casual mention of my father sent a pang through my chest. Alessandro Ricci—FBI operative, undercover genius, the man whose legacy I'd spent a decade trying to honor through misguided vengeance. Now I was on the run with his protégé, both of us hunted by the same people who had taken him from me.
"Here's the plan," Dominic said, pulling me back to the present. "We're going to set the yacht on automated navigation toward the marina. Meanwhile, we'll deploy the smoke screen and take the tender—" he gestured to the small motorized boat secured at the stern "—and circle back behind our pursuers."
"They'll realize it's empty," I pointed out.
"Not for at least ten minutes." He tapped the screen again. "The thermal imaging will show two heat signatures moving about the cabin. By the time they figure out it's a decoy, we'll be behind them."
I understood his strategy immediately. "We're going to hijack their boat."
The corner of his mouth lifted in approval. "Exactly."
"It's risky," I said, but I was already mentally preparing for the fight ahead. "How many do you think are on board?"
"Four, maybe five. Petrov doesn't like to spread his resources too thin."
"And if the Coast Guard interferes?"
"They won't." His certainty was absolute. "They're following at a distance, observing. Standard procedure when they're supporting a federal operation. They won't engage unless fired upon."
The logic made sense. The FBI would have identified us as fugitives by now, but they'd also have noted our connections to ongoing investigations. They'd want us alive for questioning.
"How long until they're in range?" I asked, checking the magazine in my Sig before sliding it into the holster at my waist.
Dominic glanced at his watch. "Ten minutes, maybe less. We need to move now."
We worked quickly, setting the automated navigation system and activating the thermal decoys. Dominic grabbed a small waterproof bag, stuffing it with cash, passports, and a satellite phone.
"Ready?" he asked as we prepared to lower the tender into the water.
I nodded, pulling my hair back into a tight ponytail. "Born ready."
His eyes darkened as they moved over me—this new, determined version of me who matched his strategic thinking step for step. Without warning, he pulled me against him, his mouth claiming mine in a fierce, possessive kiss that left me breathless.
"What was that for?" I asked when he finally released me.
"Luck," he murmured. "We could use some."
The tender dropped silently into Lake Michigan's choppy waters. We climbed down the ladder, keeping low as Dominic started the small engine. Just as we pulled away from the yacht, the programmed smoke screen activated, billowing white clouds obscuring the larger vessel from view.
Dominic steered us in a wide arc, cutting the engine as we neared the Russian speedboat's projected path. We drifted silently, the gentle lapping of waves against the hull the only sound as we waited.
Through the early morning mist, the black silhouette of the speedboat emerged, slowing as it approached our yacht now concealed behind the smoke screen. I could make out figures moving on deck—four men, all armed, just as Dominic had predicted.
"Wait for my signal," he whispered, positioning himself at the bow of our small craft.
The Russians approached the smoke cautiously, guns raised. One fired a warning shot into the air, likely trying to provoke a response. When none came, they edged closer.
"Now," Dominic breathed.
He gunned the tender's engine, the sudden roar shattering the tense silence. We shot forward, emerging from the mist like avenging spirits. Before the Russians could react, we'd pulled alongside their vessel.
Dominic leapt aboard first, his movements fluid and lethal. I followed, knife already drawn. The first man went down before he could raise his weapon, Dominic's silenced pistol making only a soft pfft as the bullet found its mark.
I engaged the second, ducking under his wild swing and driving my knee into his groin. As he doubled over, I brought the hilt of my knife down hard against the base of his skull. He crumpled to the deck, unconscious.
Gunfire erupted behind me. I spun to see Dominic exchanging shots with the remaining two Russians. One clutched his shoulder, blood seeping between his fingers. The other—a tall, broad-shouldered man with a scar bisecting his left cheek—was more skilled, using the boat's cabin for cover.
"Valentina, down!" Dominic shouted.
I dropped flat as bullets whizzed overhead. Rolling to my right, I came up behind the wounded Russian, driving my knife deep into the back of his thigh. He howled in pain, his gun clattering to the deck. A swift blow to the temple silenced him.
Only the scarred man remained. He emerged from behind the cabin, a feral grin splitting his face as he raised his weapon. Before he could fire, I heard the quiet pfft of Dominic's silenced pistol. The Russian's expression froze, a look of surprise replacing the grin as a red stain blossomed on his chest. He stumbled forward, then collapsed.
"Clear," Dominic called, sweeping the boat for any other threats.
I checked the fallen men, confirming two dead, two unconscious. "Clear on my end."
Dominic moved to the helm, familiarizing himself with the controls. "Coast Guard's holding position," he reported, glancing at the radar. "But they'll investigate once they realize the yacht is empty."
I joined him, scanning the horizon. Our smoke-shrouded yacht was already a distant silhouette, continuing its pre-programmed journey toward the marina.
"What about them?" I nodded toward the unconscious Russians.
Dominic's expression hardened. "They would have killed us without hesitation."
"I know." I met his gaze steadily. "But we're not them."
A moment of silence stretched between us, a silent battle of wills. Finally, he nodded. "We'll zip-tie them and leave them for the Coast Guard. They'll live to face justice."
Relief washed through me. I hadn't realized how important it was to me that we not cross that line—the line between survival and cold-blooded execution. Perhaps my father's legacy was influencing me more than I knew.
We secured the unconscious Russians, then searched the boat for intelligence. In the cabin, I found a satellite phone and a laptop. Dominic discovered a cache of weapons and a duffel bag filled with cash.
"Petrov's not taking any chances," he observed, rifling through the bag. "This is exit money. They weren't just sent to kill us—they were being extracted afterward."
I powered up the laptop, breaking through the basic security with techniques Reza had taught me years ago. "I'm in."
Dominic looked over my shoulder as I scrolled through files. Most were in Russian, but the photographs needed no translation. Surveillance photos of Dominic's club, my hotel, the FBI field office. A blueprint of Dominic's penthouse. And most disturbing of all, pictures of us from just hours ago, boarding the yacht at Monroe Harbor.
"They've been watching us the whole time," I whispered.
"Not just us." Dominic pointed to a folder labeled with Cyrillic characters. I opened it to find more surveillance photos—of Special Agent Harper entering the FBI building, of Sophia being escorted to court, of Marco's body being removed from the safehouse.
"They're tying up loose ends," Dominic said grimly. "Everyone connected to your father's journal is a target."
The realization hit me like a physical blow. "The evidence I sent to Harper—it wasn't enough."
"It was everything we had," Dominic reminded me gently.
"But Petrov's still operating. Still hunting." I gestured to the laptop. "This proves the network extends beyond what was in the journal."
Dominic was quiet for a moment, his expression unreadable. "What are you suggesting?"
I knew what I was about to propose would change everything—our plans, our future, the clean break we'd hoped to make. But I couldn't ignore the evidence before us or the responsibility it placed on our shoulders.
"We can't just run," I said slowly. "Not yet. Not when Petrov is still out there, cleaning house. The people who helped us—Harper, even Sophia in her twisted way—they're in danger."
Dominic studied me, his eyes searching mine. "You want to go back."
"Not to Chicago," I clarified. "But we need to finish this. For my father. For us. For any chance at a real future."
He was silent for so long I feared I'd asked too much. Finally, he reached out, his thumb brushing my cheek in a tender gesture that contrasted sharply with the violence we'd just survived.
"Your father would be proud of you," he said softly. "I know I am."
The simple words threatened to unravel me. I leaned into his touch, drawing strength from the connection between us.
"So what's the plan?" he asked.
I turned back to the laptop, pulling up a file I'd noticed earlier. "According to this, Petrov has a compound in northern Michigan. Remote, heavily guarded. That's where he's consolidating his operation now that Chicago's compromised."
"And you think that's where we'll find what we need to bring him down for good?"
I nodded. "The final piece of the puzzle. The one thing my father couldn't get—proof linking Petrov directly to the Russian intelligence services."
Dominic's expression shifted, a predatory focus replacing the tender look from moments before. "It won't be easy. A frontal assault would be suicide."
"Who said anything about frontal?" A plan was already forming in my mind. "What if we let Petrov think his men succeeded? That we're dead?"
Understanding dawned in Dominic's eyes. "We become ghosts."
"Exactly." I gestured to the two dead Russians. "We have bodies, identities we can assume. We infiltrate the compound, get the evidence, then disappear for real."
"It's dangerous," he warned. "If they realize we're alive—"
"They won't." I met his gaze, my determination matching his own. "I was trained for this, remember? And you... you were trained by the best."
My father. The unspoken reference hung between us.
Dominic considered for a long moment, then nodded decisively. "We do this together. We get the evidence, we make sure it reaches the right people, and then we disappear. No looking back."
"No looking back," I agreed.
He pulled me to him, his arms encircling me in a fierce embrace. "One last mission, Valentina. One last dance with the devil."
I buried my face against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. "And then we're free."
"Free," he echoed, the word a promise and a prayer.
The Coast Guard vessel was approaching our position now, no doubt responding to the gunfire. We had minutes, maybe less, to set our plan in motion.
"Ready?" Dominic asked, releasing me to prepare the small underwater propulsion devices he'd found in the Russians' gear.
I took one last look at the laptop, memorizing the details of Petrov's compound, then closed it and tucked it into our waterproof bag.
"Ready," I confirmed, checking my weapons one final time.
As we slipped over the side of the boat into Lake Michigan's cold embrace, I couldn't help but think how far I'd come from the vengeful dancer who'd walked into Dominic's club all those weeks ago. I'd sought destruction and found redemption instead. I'd planned to end a life and found a reason to live.
Whatever awaited us at Petrov's compound—whatever dangers we would face—we would face them together. The dancer and her protector. The hunter and her prey. Two souls forged in fire, bound by blood and promise and something deeper still.
Love. The word I'd never dared to speak aloud. The truth I could no longer deny.
The water closed over our heads as we descended beneath the surface, disappearing from the world above. Valentina Ricci and Dominic Castellano ceased to exist.
In their place, two ghosts moved silently through the depths, their course set, their purpose clear.
One last mission. One final dance.
And then, freedom.