My boots clicked sharply against the stone floor as I closed the distance between us.
Every step tightened the coil of rage inside my chest.
I stopped only when I stood directly over him.
Without hesitation, I lifted the Glock.
I cocked it.
The metallic sound rang loudly in the quiet night — loud enough to echo across the pool and bounce off the mansion walls.
I pressed the muzzle directly against his forehead.
Cold steel.
His skin.
One breath between life and death.
“I didn’t do that to your sister,” he said calmly.
As if we were discussing business.
As if a gun wasn’t pressed to his skull.
“Stop lying,” I snapped.
His gaze didn’t waver.
“Ruslan Baranov doesn’t lie.”
He shifted slightly — a movement that clearly cost him — and winced as pain pulled through his wounds. Still, he adjusted his position carefully, crossing his good leg over the injured one in a slow, controlled motion.
He continued, ‘In a desperate attempt to escape my relentless pursuit, she sought protection from a mafia boss in Italy — and he married her almost immediately. An impromptu ceremony. She thought that would shield her.’”
My jaw tightened.
“That Italian mafia boss had a first love — a woman he cherished above everything, even after marrying your sister.”
His expression darkened.
“And that woman resented her. She hated the fact that your sister came into his life. So when she found out your sister was on the run...”
My pulse slowed.
“She sold her out,” Ruslan said flatly. “Fed us the location. We extracted Elena. Brought her here last night.”
“What!” The word exploded from my throat.
Shock collided with disbelief.
“No. You’re lying. You tortured her. You did this to her.”
My finger curled tighter around the trigger, the gun pressed firmly to his head as rage surged through me.
“You can’t kill me.” His expression hardened.
“I already told you,” he continued quietly. “Snipers are zeroed on your hand. One twitch toward the trigger, and you’re down.”
