She was right, of course. The blood on my hands from years ago would never wash off. No matter how much Vladimir had tried to redirect me, to channel my violence into codeinstead of fists, it was still there. Still waiting beneath the surface.
“Yeah, well—” I started to say, but movement in my peripheral vision made me stop.
Fast. Too fast. Coming from between two parked cars.
A masked figure lunged at me, all black clothing and swift purpose. I barely had time to register the attack before hands grabbed for my throat, trying to get a grip, trying to drag me down.
Training kicked in. I twisted, broke the hold, shoved back. But the attacker was persistent, coming at me again with the kind of determination that spoke of desperation.
Then I heard the distinctivesnickof a butterfly knife opening.
Illyana moved like liquid death. One second she was three feet away, the next she was between me and the attacker, her blade flipping through her fingers with casual precision that would’ve been beautiful if it weren’t so deadly.
“Back the fuck up,” she snarled, her voice going cold and flat.
The masked man didn’t listen. Stupid. People who didn’t listen to Illyana Kamarov usually ended up dead.
He came at me again, trying to get around her, and that’s when everything went to hell.
Illyana didn’t hesitate. Her blade flashed in the neon light—red, blue, red again—as she went on the offensive. She moved like she’d been trained by the same people who’d trained Timur, which meant she moved like a weapon designed specifically to kill.
Bone-cracking hits landed with precision. Her elbow caught the attacker in the gut, driving the air from his lungs with an audiblewhuff.He doubled over, and she used the momentumto bring her knee up, connecting with his face hard enough that I heard something crack.
Blood sprayed across the concrete, black in the neon light.
“Illyana—” I started, but she was already moving again.
The attacker staggered back, one hand clutching his face, the other reaching for something in his jacket. A weapon, probably. Illyana didn’t give him the chance. She was on him in a heartbeat, her blade slashing across his thigh with surgical precision.
More blood. The metallic scent hit the air, mixing with exhaust and ozone. The attacker went down to one knee, gasping, and Illyana stood over him like an avenging angel carved from ice and fury.
“Who sent you?” she demanded, her blade pressed against his throat. “Los Zetas? Sinaloa? Some other cartel trash thinking they can take shots at the Bratva?”
I should’ve let her finish it. Should’ve let her do what she did best—eliminate threats before they could become problems. But something stopped me.
The attacker’s build. The way he moved, even injured. Something about it felt wrong. Felt familiar in a way that made my instincts scream.
This wasn’t Los Zetas. This was something else.
The struggle continued. The attacker wasn’t done fighting, despite the blood pouring from his thigh. He grabbed Illyana’s wrist, trying to force the blade away from his throat, and she responded by driving her other elbow into his solar plexus.
He gurgled, choking on air, but still didn’t stop. Still fought like a man with everything to lose.
Illyana’s eyes went flat. I recognized that look, the same look Timur got right before he put someone in the ground. Sheshifted her grip on the blade, angling it for a killing strike. Right between the ribs. Straight into the heart. Clean, efficient, final.
“Don’t kill him!” I lunged forward, catching her wrist just as the blade started its descent.
She froze, turning that flat, deadly gaze on me. “Why the fuck not?”
“Just don’t.” I didn’t have a good reason. Didn’t have any reason except the instinct screaming that if she killed this man, something bad would happen. Vladimir would find out. Would know I’d been involved in a death, even if I hadn’t been the one to deliver it.
And then I’d be on the next plane back to Russia, my hunt for Douglas over, my chance at revenge destroyed.
The masked man took advantage of our distraction. He broke free from Illyana’s grip with a burst of strength that should’ve been impossible given his injuries. Blood soaked through his pants leg, dripped onto the concrete in steady drops, but he still moved.
Still fought.
He backed up several steps, putting distance between us, his breathing ragged behind the mask. Then he spoke, and my entire world tilted.
