Ruslan’s bloody palm slammed down against the armrest.
The wet slap echoed violently through the high-ceilinged room.
“Shut the fuck up.”
His voice was no longer quiet.
He leaned forward, forearms braced on his thighs, eyes glittering like shattered glass.
“We had a deal,” he said, each word clipped. “A deal that must be honored. My wife remains with me.”
He let the words linger.
“Divorce?” A harsh, humorless laugh tore from him. “Keep dreaming. I will never divorce her.”
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
Dario stepped forward half a pace.
“You think we’ll just leave her here?” he said softly. “And let our sister continue suffering at the hands of a man consumed by revenge until she breaks?”
The word sister was intentional.
A line drawn.
Beside him, Ethan’s hand drifted toward the concealed holster at his hip. Subtle. Controlled. But unmistakable.
Ruslan noticed.
Of course he did.
His gaze flicked downward for a fraction of a second before returning to Ethan’s face.
My other four brothers—Luca, Marco, Nico, and Vito—remained a few meters back, silent and still.
They had changed into fresh suits, but nothing could disguise what they were. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Controlled violence wrapped in tailored fabric.
Deadly men.
My men.
Seeing them like this dragged me backward through time.
I was six the day Father brought them home.
Six boys from the orphanage. Fatherless. Motherless. Angry at the world in quiet, different ways.
Dario had been fourteen then—already carrying responsibility like a second skin. He’d knelt in front of me thatfirst evening, lowering himself to my height so he wouldn’t tower.
He had held out a small, chipped marble.
“For luck,” he’d said slowly, carefully.
I had clutched that marble so hard my knuckles turned white.
I still had it.
Another memory surfaced.
