“Look, you have my blessing to kill every last one of those bastards for what they did—Sora’s family included. But I’m out, brother. Permanently. Sora and I are done fighting wars we didn’t ask for or start in the name of family. I never wanted Father’s legacy—you know that. And now that we have a baby on the way… I want to start a new life, one where Sora and our baby will be safe. Besides, you’re perfectly capable of fighting without me.”
I can hear the remorse in Leo’s tone, even with the miles stretching between us, but I don’t want him to feel guilty for putting his new family first.
If I had a wife and baby to protect, I might just feel the same way. I want my brother to be happy—and I know how desperately Leo wanted to escape the shackles of his inheritance.
“I’m not asking you to come back and fight,” I assure him. “We can do this without you, right, brothers?” I meet Gio’s, Sandro’s, and Raf’s eyes in turn, and relief floods me as I get a stoic nod of confirmation from each.
Then Raf’s jaw sets in grim determination, fire igniting in his gaze for the first time since I found him in the rubble of our family home. “We’ll make them regret the day they ever thought they could take what’s ours,” he growls.
I can hear the wicked grin in Leo’s response. “Make ’em pay,” he says before ending the call.
And this time, when I look around the table, I can see the same glint of determination in my brothers’ eyes that raised me frommy devastation. Our enemies might have taken everything from us, but they’ve also given us too sweet a reason to live.Revenge.
“Alright,” I say, my pulse throbbing with fresh conviction as I lean my elbows onto the galley table and get down to business. “I say we start with the Russians. Pyotr’s the one who killed the Don, so it will make a solid statement. Besides, without the Yakuza and the Irish, the Russians are the most vulnerable.”
My brothers nod in silent agreement, leaning in as they get on board with the plan.
“If we gather our remaining men, we should still have the numbers to crush the Russians and claim their headquarters. From there, we can start to rebuild…”
4
ANIKA
The anxiety of lying next to Pyotr in his drunken state is enough to keep my sleep light by the time I finally manage to drift off somewhere in the early hours of the morning.
Waiting for a glimpse of light is torture as I’m roused at every slight twitch he makes, agonizing over the possibility that he might wake, determined to finish what he started last night.
It fills my half-sleep with harrowing dreams of finding myself trapped beneath him, unable to move or breathe, unable to stop him from taking what he wants.
Each agonizing minute ticks by like an eternity, and by the time the sun begins to creep through the window of our master suite, I can’t stand to stay in bed a minute longer.
As soon as it’s marginally acceptable to do so, I gently roll out of bed and tiptoe to our walk-in closet, closing the door behind me so I can turn on the light.
I know from experience that when Pyotr does get out of bed today, it’s not going to be a pretty sight.
That’s why it’s best to get an early start on the morning—have breakfast made and ready along with a bloody Mary to take the edge off the hangover that will be waiting for him when he wakes.
I change quickly, slipping into a soft blue-floral-print wrap dress with flowing sleeves, and hook my fingers around the backs of a pair of white pumps.
Then I head to the bathroom to apply the makeup I know Pyotr will be irritated if I’m not wearing when he comes down for breakfast. Rather than fussing with my hair, I release it from the loose braid I put it in last night, and the relaxed waves fall around my shoulders in a soft, natural look.
But the reflection that looks out at me from me now is unrecognizable as the woman I was a year ago.
Gone is the light from my eyes, the cheeky retorts that used to pop into my mind.
I remember a time when I had to work hard to bite them back. Now, I’m just an empty shell of a human being, polished and pretty and waiting on a shelf for when Pyotr chooses to take me out and show me off.
I don’t have time to unpack that baggage, though. Instead, I creep back through the bedroom to the thick double doors leading out into the hall.
Only after I close it carefully behind me do I dare to slip into my shoes.
Then I make my way down to the kitchen to instruct Yelena to start on the morning spread—something fried in butter and greasy enough to soak up the alcohol left in Pyotr’s system.
It’s tense in the kitchen as the staff get to work—quiet as Yelena slides me a plate of fresh fruit, silently insisting that I eat something before the impending storm.
I pick at it as I oversee their progress, trying not to hover but checking every detail as it goes out to make sure breakfast will be exactly as Pyotr wants it.
“Alina!”
