He turned fully to face me.
“The only piece missing from his puzzle is you.”
That landed heavier than expected.
“He wanted you married to Harris Thompson,” Ruslan continued. “The alliance would’ve secured the Thompson inheritance — financial control, political leverage, and legitimacy through blood ties.”
His gaze sharpened.
“When that fell apart, he had to find another way to regain trust.”
I folded my arms tightly across my chest.
My silence urged him to continue.
“But make no mistake,” he said firmly, stepping closer. “Vasquez wants to rule the entire California underworld.”
His tone lowered.
“If he succeeds... he won’t stop with consolidating power.”
His eyes locked onto mine. “He’ll come for you.”
A beat.
“And he’ll come for your sister.”
The words weren’t delivered as a threat.
They were delivered as prediction. As inevitability.
I stared at the map behind him — at the circles representing power structures built on violence and loyalty and fear.
Four days had passed since I had walked into this bunker and found my sister tied to a chair.
Broken.
Barely recognizable.
Ruslan had taken me straight to the hospital that same night.
We had moved through sterile white corridors filled with the soft hum of machines and whispered instructions from doctors.
But she had already been airlifted out.
Taken by her Italian mafia husband — the man she had fled to after years of running from Ruslan’s relentless pursuit.
The man she believed would protect her.
The man who instead chose his first love over her.
My chest tightened at the memory.
I never saw her conscious.
Never got the chance to ask why she had kept punching Amy.
One hundred and fifteen times.
