Marco's study door is open. He's standing at his window, a glass of whiskey in hand, still wearing his suit from yesterday. Or is it today now?
"You've been researching the Russians," he says without turning. It's not a question.
"I need to understand."
"No, you need to be protected." He turns then, and I see the exhaustion in his eyes. "We're doubling your security. You don't go anywhere without—"
"That won't stop him."
"It will if I put a bullet in his head first."
"Marco—"
"He threatened you, Sofia. In our home. Made it clear he's coming for you." His voice drops to that dangerous register that makes grown men wet themselves. "That's a declaration of war."
I sink into one of his leather chairs, suddenly exhausted. "What if it's not a threat? What if it's… justice?"
His glass hits the desk hard enough to crack. "Justice? For what? For being a child who mentioned a friend to her family?"
"I got Mikhail killed."
"Luca killed Mikhail. During an attack the Russians started." But even Marco doesn't sound entirely convinced. We all know there are pieces missing from that night, things none of us talk about.
"There's something I'm not remembering," I tell him, the words rushing out. "Something important about that night. About before. I have these fragments—images, words in Russian I shouldn't know, this feeling that I've forgotten something crucial."
Marco crosses to me, kneeling so we're at eye level. My big brother, who rules Chicago's underworld with an iron fist, looking at me with such concern it makes my chest ache.
"Whatever happened, you were fifteen years old. A child. Nothing that happened was your fault."
But I'm already shaking my head. "I found something. In my old room." I pull the small bracelet from my robe pocket, the silver charm catching the lamplight. "Half a heart. I think… I think I gave the other half to someone."
Marco's face goes very still. "Sofia."
"What if I knew him, Marco? Really knew him. What if we were—"
"Stop." He takes the bracelet, examining it with the same intensity he brings to everything. "This doesn't change anything. Alexei Volkov is a threat to this family. To you. Whatever childhood connection you might have had died with his brother."
I want to argue, but something in his expression stops me. He knows more than he's saying. They all do—the careful way they've discussed that night for eleven years, the gaps in the story that no one acknowledges.
"I'm not going to hide forever," I tell him.
"You won't have to. We'll handle the Volkovs."
"Like we handled them eleven years ago?"
"We thought the Morettis were to blame at the time," Marco says quietly.
I laugh. "Exactly. The Volkovs have always had the upper hand. They're always one step ahead of us."
The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken truths. Finally, Marco stands, returning to his window.
"Go back to bed, Sofia. Tomorrow we're increasing security protocols. You'll have a detail with you at all times."
I stand to leave, but pause at the door. "Alexei said I have something that belongs to him. What if he's right?"
Marco doesn't turn around. "The only thing you have that he wants is your life. And he's not getting that."
I return to my suite, but I don't go back to bed. Instead, I sit at my desk and open a new document. Not research this time. A plan. Because Marco's wrong—a security detail won't stop Alexei Volkov. He walked through our defenses like they were made of paper. He could have taken me that night of the dinner party if he'd wanted.
