Page 120 of The Enemy Protector
I need Anton.
Nelson is waiting by the door when I come downstairs, like he always is.
“I’m going to visit Anton,” I tell him.
He doesn’t argue. He just nods and follows me to the SUV.
The drive to Anton’s apartment in Brighton Beach takes forty minutes. Nelson tries to make small talk twice. I shut it down both times. I’m not in the mood. He’s nice enough, but he’s Sergei’s guy.
I need my guy, which reminds me I need to hire security. But it’s not like I can call a security service. And I can’t trust anyone in my own bratva.
Anton’s building is a six-story walk-up that’s seen better days. The elevator is broken, so we take the stairs. Nelson stays two steps behind me the entire way.
When we reach Anton’s door on the fourth floor, I turn to Nelson.
“You stay out here,” I say.
“Sofia— “
“I’m not asking.” I soften my tone slightly. “Please. I need to talk to him alone. You can stand right here. Listen if you want. But you’re not coming in. I’m sure he’s heard about my marriage, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to like it.”
“Fine,” he says. “I’ll be right here.”
I knock on the door. It takes a minute, but I hear shuffling inside. The door opens to reveal Anton on crutches.
His eyes light up when he sees me.
“Sofia. Come in, come in.”
He steps aside, and I slip into his small apartment. It’s clean but sparse. A couch, a television, a small kitchen table with two chairs. Everything a man who lives alone needs and nothing more.
Normally, he would stay at the estate.
“You look good,” he says, closing the door behind me.
“Liar.” I turn to face him. “How are you feeling?”
“Better every day.” He gestures to the couch. “Sit. Please.”
I sink into the worn cushions. Anton lowers himself carefully into the chair across from me, favoring his injured side.
We stare at each other for a moment. I don’t know where to start.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner,” I finally say. “Things have been complicated. “
“I know. I heard about the marriage.”
I nod. “I’m sure you understand.”
He studies my face. “Are you happy?”
The question catches me off guard. No one has asked me that. Not once.
“I’m alive,” I say. “That’s what matters.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I look down at my hands. At the platinum band on my finger that marks me as Sergei Sokolov’s wife.
