The nausea.
The dizziness.
The sudden weakness.
Exhaustion had been creeping in for weeks — but this felt different.
More intrusive.
I glanced at Yannis.
He stared out the window — expression thoughtful.
Serious.
Too grown for his age.
“So you mean,” he signed suddenly, breaking the silence, “with all the power my dad has... he still couldn’t stop himself from being arrested?”
I exhaled slowly.
“Everyone’s power is limited, sweetheart.”
“Even his.”
Yannis tilted his head slightly.
“Someone betrayed him.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a conclusion he had already reached.
I glanced at him.
Smart. Observant. Dangerous traits in a child raised around power.
I didn’t answer him.
The truth wasn’t something I could casually admit. Not like this.
The reality sat heavy in my throat.
I was the reason his father was in prison.
I was the one who recorded the video.
The one who captured Ruslan in the dark — blade in hand — slitting the throats of two men without hesitation.
The footage had been brutal.
I had sent it straight to Roman.
Roman had routed it through secure channels — bypassing corrupt intermediaries — delivering it directly into the hands of federal officials in D.C.
Less than two hours later...
The estate had been surrounded.
Black federal SUVs had rolled down the driveway.
