“And instead of correcting it... instead of admitting you were wrong... you doubled down. You sent me — an innocent woman — to prison because you convinced yourself I was secretly communicating with her. Feeding her information. Helping her hide.”
My throat burned.
“Another mistake.”
I leaned in slightly — close enough that I could smell the antiseptic from his wounds mixing with the chlorine scent drifting from the pool and the metallic copper tang of his blood.
“Two massive, life-destroying mistakes.”
His jaw flexed.
But he still didn’t interrupt.
That silence irritated me more than resistance.
“What in the world makes you so certain you’re not wrong about my sister this time?” I demanded.
My voice sharpened.
“I don’t care about your CCTV footage. I don’t care about intercepted calls. I don’t care about whatever so-called evidence your people collected.”
I pointed the gun loosely toward the ground — emphasizing my words, not threatening him.
“My sister wouldn’t murder a pregnant woman for no reason. She isn’t built that way.”
His eyes darkened.
“You know that,” I continued, holding his gaze. “Deep down, somewhere buried beneath your anger — you have to know it.”
Ruslan shifted on the chaise lounge.
The movement clearly pulled at the bullet wound in his thigh.
His teeth clenched.
A low hiss escaped him as pain shot through his body — fresh blood darkening through the white bandages.
He adjusted slowly before speaking.
“So what about my sister?” he countered.
His voice was lower now.
Rough. Raw.
“I was there, Elena. I watched her punch Amy.”
The name landed like a physical strike.
“One hundred and fifteen times,” he continued. “To the face.”
His gaze sharpened. “Until there was nothing left to recognize.”
My stomach twisted — but I didn’t look away.
I swallowed — forcing composure.
“You told me yourself,” I said carefully, “that Al Chapo forced her to choose.”
