Mikhael steps out of them, my men at his side. “It’s done?”
“It’s done.” I tip Anatoli’s blown face right-side up with my shoe. “Leave the body here. Let his people find him. They’ll see what happens when they cross us.”
Mikhael draws closer. His hands are bloody, but his face is steady. For the first time since I rose to power, he bows his head all the way down to me. “Yes,pakhan.”
For a moment, our eyes meet. There’s something new in his: a rekindled fire, a brighter loyalty.
All this time, I’ve been worrying about which way he might turn if this succession struggle kept dragging on.
But tonight, push came to shove, and Mikhael stood with me. Backed me up. Proved himself in every way. Come to think of it, he looks like an entirely different person. He’s standing straighter, eyes clear, fixed on me like he finally sees me again. Like he respects me. All the hesitation, the tension between us these past weeks—it breaks here, at Anatoli’s grave.
Mikh chose his side, and for the first time since this mess began, I’m glad to call him my cousin.
I clap him on the shoulder once, then turn to the men. “It’s open season on the Danilo Bratva,” I announce. “No hesitation. We strike fast, strike hard, and leave no survivors. Tonight, we are Vikings. And we’re going to burn those motherfuckers until there’s not a single Danilo left to tell the tale.”
It’s sinking into their bones now: Anatoli Danilo is dead.
I can see the realization change them from the inside out. Mikhael’s loyalty wasn’t the only one in play. Plenty of people didn’t think I had it in me to lead them. Most of them were just waiting to see where the chips would fall.
But now, the chips have fallen—right in my fucking lap.
The look on their faces tells me whatever doubts they might’ve had just died with Anatoli. This fight cemented me. I’m theirpakhan,and they will follow me through death.
I turn back to Anatoli. Two men are stringing him up from the rafters now. I don’t stop them. For a long moment, I just stare.
And then the truth hits me like a punch to the gut: Sima warned me. She told me what he was planning. If I hadn’t listened, I’d be the one bleeding out on this dock.
She saved me.
And I didn’t even want to fucking hear it.
I still don’t know whether she’s been in contact with her family or not. But I know one thing: I need to apologize to her.
I need to make this right.
65
SIMA
I have to get out of here.
Part of me hates that thought, but what choice do I have? It’s not even me deciding to leave. Petyr already made the decision for me.
I glance around the penthouse. My chest clenches painfully. Until yesterday, I thought we could make a home here. That this would be our blank slate, the place we’d paint our future.
But Petyr had already decided that, too. A cruel future with me as his prisoner. That’s what he was painting.
My throat tightens as I stuff the last couple of things in my getaway bag, but I steel myself and finish packing. I don’t let myself think. If I start wallowing, I’ll never get out, and that’s not an option. For me or my child.
There’s just one tiny inconvenience: Luka. The human padlock with an anxiety problem and pockets full of antacids.
And guns. Don’t forget the guns.
I pace the bedroom. My nerves chew at me as I run through scenarios like I’m pitching bad improv skits to myself.
“Hey, Luka. Wanna see a magic trick? If you turn around and close your eyes for thirty seconds, I promise I can make your job disappear. Your life, too, if Petyr’s mood strikes.”
Yeah, no.
