The second he sees me, his face goes red with rage. “You.”
Then he’s hurtling towards me, fist poised to strike.
“Anton, wait!” Kazimir shouts uselessly. He tries to hop down, but his bad foot won’t let him cross the room fast enough.
Not that there’s any need.
I catch Anton’s fist mid-air. “Calm down, man.”
“Like hell am I gonna calm down!” He tries to hit me with the other, but I block that one, too. Anton is a useful paper-pusher, but a fighter he has never been. “It’s your fault she’s in that bed!”
“Remind me who left his post again.”
His face burns brighter. More fury, perhaps, or shame. “Someone had to shoot that bastard.”
“That someone was me.”
“Then why isn’t he fucking dead?!”
Anton’s insinuation pours gasoline on my own rage. “Because you left your goddamn post,” I growl. “You made yourself a target. And the only reason your sister is in that bed is because she ate that bullet for you. Now, are you done taking swings at yourpakhanor do I have to discipline you?”
Anton freezes. He knows what the word “discipline” means. He may be grieving, but he hasn’t lost all self-preservation yet.
Slowly, he drops his fists. “She’s all I have,” he murmurs. “It’s always been just the two of us. Now, that surgeon’s been saying she’ll never walk again. How do I tell her that?”
“You don’t.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “I do. That’s why you have apakhan.”
I should be punishing him. Raising your hand against yourpakhan—that’s a capital offense. Grounds for a summary execution.
And yet, the fact that he even took a swing at me at all would have been unthinkable twenty-four hours ago. The Volkov twins madevortogether, with Anton largely riding on his sister’s coattails. She was always the tough one, the ruthless one, shoot-first-ask-questions-later. Anton? He only ever fired his gun if it was to save his own skin.
Now, here he is, fightingme. Someone bigger, badder, stronger than he could ever hope to be. All for the sake of someone else.
This is what war does to people. It changes them—for better or worse. Anton’s living proof of that.
And so am I.
“Kazimir,” I say, “get the planning committee on the phone.”
He blinks. “Boss, it’s three in the morning.”
“I’m aware.”
“Alright, alright.” He puts his hands up placatingly against my black mood. “I’ll do it. What do you want me to tell them?”
“Tell them I need a gala. Next week.”
His eyes go wide. No doubt, he’s thinking I’m crazy. These events ordinarily take months—a week won’t even be enough to find someone for catering.
But I don’t give a shit if it’s impossible. Theywillmake it possible. Because I said so, and because I need it.
Because, next week, we lay our final trap.
37
MIA
In the morning, I wake up alone.
