Because if the dead can’t testify, they certainly can’t be held responsible for what they’ve said in life, either.
We’re out of town, where the roads narrow and curve like veins through the landscape, far from the glass-and-smoke breath of the city. The chapel is old, sun-worn, with ivy curling likeskeletal fingers across the faded stone façade. Inside, the pews are cracked and creaking under the weight of the years.
There’s no priest. No prayers. No false absolution. Just two urns—dull, heavy, unadorned—and a few lowlifes who thought they owed the dead men a nod, at least.
Behind me, boots crunch on the old wooden floor. I don’t even need to turn to know who it is.
“It can’t go on like this,” comes a low grunt.
Zhenya. She’s wearing the signature white pocket square of recruits, a half-assed attempt at disguise, but her voice carries that same heat it always does. “I’m not sitting on my ass, waiting to be picked off.”
“You should be in hiding.” My voice is gravel, ground down by responsibility. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in a week. Haven’t blinked in what feels like hours.
If it weren’t for Mia, I’d have lost it by now.
Every time I feel like I’m at the end of my rope, her touch brings me back to life. We’ve been fraying the dangerous boundary between casual and not casual at all—between desire and feelings.
She still hasn’t forgiven me. But right now, that’s on the backburner. What matters is keeping her safe and warm in my bed, where I can touch her, hold her, make her cry out in pleasure instead of pain.
“You should be in hiding, too,” Zhenya replies. “And yet here you are.”
“I’m thepakhan,” I say, turning now, catching her eyes. “If I went underground, we’d lose all respect in the city.”
“And we’re yourvory.” Another voice joins—Kazimir. “If you go down, we go down with you.”
“I’m with Z and Kaz on this,” Anton joins in, sweat beading at his brow like he’s never felt a cool breeze in his life. “Though I’d love it if we could avoid another bullet-to-the-head situation while we’re at it.”
Great. Even the resident coward is showing some backbone. Maybe death has a way of doing that—of scraping people down to their truest, rawest selves. And sometimes, what’s left beneath is sharper than you expect.
“If you stick around,” I warn, “I can’t guarantee your safety.”
“Not to be rude, boss,” Kazimir says, tilting his head, “but we’reBratva. If I wanted a cushy job, I’d have gone into politics.”
“Bunch of stubborn bastards, aren’t they?” Maksim chuckles at my side, arms folded. “But then again, they’reyourbastards. You pick ’em, you keep ’em.”
I roll my eyes and rub at the tension coiling in my temples.
Fuck me, he’s right.
I picked them. Every last one. Some for their brains, others for their brawn. Some because they had bloodlust in their teeth and nothing else to lose. I made my choices. I built this empire from flesh and fire and reckless trust. I knew they’d bring the fight when the time came.
And the time has come. Hard and fast and bloody.
Can’t exactly bench them now.
But then Desya might win.It’s a creeping doubt at the back of my neck, that feeling of your hair standing on end, like someone’s watching you from afar. Ever since Desya came back from the dead, I just can’t stop feeling it. The need to stay alert, to watch my six every waking moment.
Prizrak has the advantage. Always did, really. They know who we are, where we are, and how to pick us off. Ghosts in the night, crawling out of the woodwork to claim their victims and then sinking back into the shadows. Invisible, impossible to catch, made of air and water and gunfire.
But they’re not ghosts. They’re men. And as much as he likes to pretend otherwise, Desya is just a man, too.
I didn’t kill him back then—that doesn’t mean I can’t or won’t.
He murdered my family. Now, he’s going after my new one. No doubt, he thinks it’s only a matter of time before the chips fall in his favor.
Think again,mudak.
It’s high time we flip the script.
