I’ve killed her, I know I have.
My hands claw at my face.Stupid, stupid, stupid.“You’re a murderer. You’re a jealous murderer,” I cry, knowing I need to find the courage to face what I’ve done.
Hesitantly, I peek through a window—my sight blurred by the tears I can’t stop from pouring out—expecting to see Gen’s lifeless body under my brother’s gun, but… that can’t be right.
Women are being herded forward.Women—as in plural.
Their hands bound, faces pale and terrified. The echoes of clipped Italian orders bounce off stone walls, harsh and hungry.
I dig my nails into my cheeks, trying to hold myself still.
Some of the women bear marks on their necks—branding, inked and cruel. My chest tightens. I know that crest: Orlov.
These are Russian women.
“Let’s fucking go. Move!” the man I don’t recognize yells.
It’s my papa.
But no.
This isn’t him. He doesn’t treat women this way.
He loves me. He loved my mom. He treats everyone with kindness unless he doesn’t have another choice.
I—the boy from the shadows—he was right. I’m surrounded by liars. By abusers. By sex traffickers.
I think I’m going to be sick. My eyes clench shut, tears sliding free.
And when I open them again, I can’t bear the sight, and I can’t stop crying, coughing through the overwhelming sensation. I try to look away, turning to run back to my room, but all I find is Enzo—standing tall and rigid, a silver gun in hand, near the opposite cliff.
My stomach drops.
Next to him, lit by the cold glow of bulbs, stands Gen.
My mind refuses to make sense of it. I feel like I’m watching through someone else’s eyes—the terror, the control, the betrayal, all mixing into a cocktail I’m not ready for.
“No… no, no, no!” I whisper, my hands moving to my ribs. The world tilts; the floor seems to vanish beneath me. I need to do something. I need to help.
I turn on my heels, sprinting blindly toward Enzo and Gen, away from the chamber, away from the horrifying scene. My boots slam against the cobblestones, my lungs burning, fear propelling me forward.
But a heavy hand clamps over my arm before I can get close enough for them to hear me. I whirl around, and Elijah is there. His eyes are piercing, almost dark with something I can’t read.
“You can’t do anything,” he says urgently. “Not now.”
“Let me go!” I shriek, wrenching against him. “He—he’s going to—Gen—” My words stumble, frantic, as panic claws at every inch of me.
Elijah doesn’t release me. His grip is firm, unyielding, yet somehow not cruel. His eyes search mine like he’s trying to make me understand the stakes without words.
“I know,” he murmurs, softer than the chaos around us.
Tears sting my eyes. “I can’t let it happen! I have to stop it, I have to—”
“You can’t, not like this. It’s done.”
I shake my head until it hurts. “I told him to kill her.” My voice cracks. “I told him. And I didn’t mean it, Elijah, I swear I didn’t. I was angry, and I—”
“Enzo isn’t killing Gen for you.”
