My lips curl into a smirk despite myself. The kid’s smart. Not like his brothers at all.
But he’s a lot like his sister.
I snatch the map from his hand. “If Sima’s alive when I get there, you can have your truce. If not…” My voice drops to a snarl. “Then I’m hunting down every last one of you.”
“If she’s dead, you won’t need to hunt me anywhere.”
I take in his words. The guilt inside them. He’s serious about this—I can tell.
It still might be a trap, though.
There’s no guarantee he can be trusted. He’s a Danilo. Nikolai’s son. The brother of two men I killed. In his shoes, I wouldn’t be offering truces to fucking no one.
But if I want to save Sima, I can’t keep going it alone. I have to trust something.
So I’ll trust her.
“Mikh,” I call, “gather the men. We’re storming that goddamn house.”
59
SIMA
My childhood bedroom looks, objectively, like shit.
I shouldn’t be surprised. Dad never had a smidge of taste—it was all Mom’s doing. Whatever he did in here, he clearly did without her blessing, like Maks said.
Then again, he couldn’t very well ask her opinion on the decor of his personal whorehouse.
Seeing my room like this cures me of any nostalgia I might have felt. Which means I have no qualms about turning it upside down.
Maksim stepped out a while ago, and no one has been back since. I’ve been waiting to see if guards would show. Or Father, perhaps, here to gloat. But he’s already made it clear he’d rather get his family jewels lasered off than be in the same room with me for one more second, so I’m not too worried about that. At worst, he’ll send someone in the morning.
Before that happens, I need to be long gone.
I was honest with Maksim. With my father. I’m Sima Gubarev now, and I won’t turn my back on that, no matter the price.
That doesn’t mean I’m going to stick around for the bill, though.
I have a daughter to get back to. A husband. One who’ll tear this whole place apart to find me. I can’t let him risk getting hurt for me, not again.
Unless he bought Kira’s story.That thought needles at me in an ugly way.Unless he’s not coming.
No. Petyr’s coming. And if he’s not, I’ll just have to come to him.
I press my palms against the glass and look out. The garden below glows with faint lantern light. Mom’s touch again. My chest clenches at the memory of how much fun we used to have getting our hands dirty in the earth, trimming the roses. She used to come alive when she was making something, be it cooking or gardening. Creation was her kingdom.
Once I’m through with Nikolai, I’ll bring her back to herself. I’ll keep at it for as long as it takes. After what I’ve put her through for the past thirteen years, I owe it to her.
And selfishly, I want my mother back, too.
I look outside again. Somewhere beyond those trimmed hedges, my father is probably having a drink and a night stroll, pleased as punch with himself. He thinks he’s won. That he can use me as bait, dangle me like a prize to draw Petyr in.
He has no idea how much fire he’s playing with.
I try to open the window. The handle rattles but doesn’t budge.
Figures. Bratva men love their locks. I’ve learned that lesson by now. Bet Father must have regretted not putting one there before I turned twelve.
