Dario goes still. His jaw tightens, and for a moment he doesn’t say anything. We both know I’m right. When his wife, Paige, was kidnapped, pregnant with his sons, he was ready to burn down the world to get her back. He killed her own father because the bastard made a deal with the Bratva to hand her over to them. That fucker is buried in concrete under the hotel now.
Dario doesn’t need me to remind him of any of that. He lived it.
“That’s not a fair comparison,” he says finally. But there’s no heat in it.
“Isn’t it?”
He scrubs a hand over his face and exhales. When he looks at me again, there’s something different in his expression.
“Are you saying you care about her? Legitimately?”
I don’t answer right away. The truth feels too raw, too new. But Dario’s my brother in every way that counts, and I owe him honesty.
I nod.
Dario holds my gaze for a beat, then nods back. He knows what it’s like to catch unexpected feelings.
“Viktor will die,” he says. “Let me talk to Lorenzo.”
I don’t tell him I’m not planning to wait for that conversation.
If I see Viktor before that order comes through, he’s dead anyway.
“You know,” Dario adds, “I’m starting to think they all should go. Kozlov. Viktor. The whole goddamn organization.”
“You think we’ll need to wipe out the entire Bratva?”
He shrugs, suddenly looking tired. “I don’t see a peaceful end to this. You were at that meeting with Kozlov. You know he’s an unreasonable prick. Things are just going to keep getting worse.”
He’s right. I’m familiar with men like Kozlov, so full of hate and cruelty that they can’t be talked down. Won’t ever compromise. They only understand violence and force.
“You’re right,” I say. “This won’t end until one of us is gone.”
Dario nods grimly as he heads toward the door. “Let’s make sure it’s them.”
19
SIERRA
Sleep’s not happening.
My body is exhausted. My mind, though? It’s running laps around the inside of my skull like it’s training for a marathon I never signed up for.
I stare at the ceiling of Matteo’s bedroom, counting the shadows. Counting my breaths. Counting the minutes since bullets ripped through my apartment while I cowered behind a kitchen island in the home I’d made for myself.
The crackers Matteo left for me sit on the nightstand. Such a surprisingly thoughtful gesture from a man who looks like he doesn’t have a gentle bone in his body.
I’m not hungry, but I eat them anyway, and having something in my stomach helps. The gnawing emptiness settles into something more manageable.
But I still can’t sleep.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Viktor’s face. The cold rage in his expression when he hit me. The gun in his hand. The waytime seemed to stretch when that bullet grazed my arm, white-hot pain blooming across my skin.
If Matteo hadn’t been there...
I keep circling back to that. If I’d walked into my apartment alone. If he’d dropped me off and driven away. If he’d stayed on his phone longer out in the hall.
I’d be dead. Or worse.
