"Then perhaps it's not your business."
I cross the room slowly, deliberately, and sit across from him. Between us sits Mikhail's chess table, the one where the three of us spent countless hours, back when we thought we'd rule the world together. My fingers itch for the knife at my belt.
"Everything about her is my business."
Kaz sets down his tablet, pours two vodkas. Slides one across the chess table. The liquid doesn't even ripple, his hand that steady. "Do you remember when we were twelve? That summer at the lake house?"
I don't touch the glass. The vodka would burn going down, and I need the edge of sobriety. "What about it?"
"Mikhail taught us both to swim that summer." His expression softens, genuine for once. "You were terrified of the deep water. Wouldn't go past your waist."
The memory surfaces unwanted. Mikhail's patient voice, his hands steady on my back as I learned to trust the water. The terror of drowning, lungs burning, before his arms caught me.
"Misha spent three days coaxing you," Kaz continues. "Patient as a saint. And when you finally swam to the dock, he acted like you'd won an Olympic medal."
You did it, Alyosha! I knew you could.
My chest tightens at the memory of his pride, pure and uncomplicated.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because that's who he was. Patient. Kind. The best of us." Kaz's voice hardens to steel. "And she got him killed."
"We don't know what happened that night."
"We know enough." He leans forward, vodka forgotten. "The only reason Mikhail was at that fucking Rosetti-Moretti meeting was because of that girl. Her. Your Rosetti bitch. Eleven years, Alexei. Eleven years we've been planning revenge."
His voice drops, each word precise as a blade between ribs. "And now you're fucking her in Misha's house."
"This isn't Misha's house."
"It was supposed to be. He was supposed to inherit. He was supposed to be pakhan." His fist hits the table, making the chess pieces jump. "Instead he's in the ground and you're in his place, letting his killer's sister warm your bed. You're spitting on his grave every time you touch her."
"I'm not—"
"You ARE." Kaz stands abruptly, pacing like something caged. "Kill her. Send her back in pieces. But this? Keeping her like a pet, parading her at galas, letting her walk free in our home?"
"She doesn't walk free."
"She was in the corridor ALONE. I could have killed her in thirty seconds."
"But you didn't."
Kaz goes still, and that stillness is more dangerous than his rage. "No.I didn't."
"Why not?"
"Because I wanted to see what you'd do. Whether you'd defend her. Whether you'd choose her over blood." His smile turns bitter. "And here you are. In my quarters. Defending her. I have my answer."
"Kaz."
"Do you remember what your father used to say? About wolves?"
My jaw tightens until I taste copper. I don't want those words from his mouth.
"A wolf who won't protect the pack isn't a wolf anymore. He's just meat." He picks up his vodka, drains it in one burning swallow. "The men are watching, Alexei. They see you choosing a Rosetti whore over Volkov blood. How long before they decide you're meat?"
"Is that a threat?"
