Salima swallowed as the knock came again.

She ended the call and sent a single text to Roman.

“He called. I think he’s outside.”

She set the phone down on the kitchen island and reached for the knife rack. Her fingers wrapped around the handle with practised calm. No shaking. No hesitation.

She moved toward the door, every step measured, the blade steady in her palm.

“Who is it?” she called.

But no one answered.

Her jaw tightened. She unlocked the door and swung it open in one sharp motion.

“Victor?” She gasped.

Victor stood there, his grey hair falling across his face, dressed too neatly for the hour. His...