The Ducati rumblesunder me as I cut through Queens, the traffic lights blur past in streaks of red and gold—I left the box in the SUV. No green carpet for me tonight. The speed does nothing to steady the chaos in my head. Nico is Alexei Voronin. Alexei. A name that shouldn’t belong anywhere near my brother. Shouldn’t belong anywhere near my family. Shouldn’t belong anywhere near me.
But it does.
Wind tears at my jacket. My pulse is a hammer in my ears. What does this mean? Nico—Alexei—grew up in our house. Ate at our table. Fell asleep on the couch when he was a kid, head on my shoulder. We bled for each other. Fought for each other. I went half-mad thinking he was dead.
Voronin’s son or not, heismy brother. But the truth has teeth, sharp ones, and it’s sinking into everything I thought I knew.
The complex rises in front of me like a corpse, an abandoned apartment block hollowed out by time and neglect. The kind of place where bad men get buried or resurrected. Currently housing Gustave. My father. I had him brought here after the board meeting under strict security. It's the only place I can think of where I might find Nico.
I kill the engine.
Silence hits, broken only by the wind rattling through broken windowpanes. My men guard the perimeter, but the building hums with a strange, waiting energy. As if it senses what's about to happen.
I climb the stairs two at a time, a sense of urgency driving me that is hard to explain. A feeling of dread, anger, and something else. When I push the final door open, the air punches out of my lungs even though I expected him to be here. Nico stands in the center of the rotting room, a gun leveled at Gustave’s head. Wind from the shattered windows lifts Nico’s dark hair, except underneath, lighter strands gleam in the moonlight.
Blond.
The ghost of who he was or now is.
Gustave sits tied to a rusted chair, blood drying at thecorner of his mouth. He looks smaller than I’ve ever seen him.
"About time," Nico mutters without taking his eyes off him.
My voice is low. "Nico."
He turns his head, and for the first time in years, I see all of him—fear, rage, betrayal, grief—and something new: Purpose.
"You know," he says.
"Yes."
"And you still came."
"Yes," I answer, because it’s the only truth that matters. "I'll always come. You're my brother, no matter what."
A floorboard groans beneath my boot, and something in the room shifts, like the building itself leans closer to listen. Nico’s jaw clenches. "I didn’t know who I was, Steph. I swear it. Not until Aurelio took me."
Gustave’s expression tightens. I move closer. "Is that true?" Gustave doesn’t speak. "Answer me."
Finally, he exhales. "Yes."
The last breath my lungs were holding gets knocked out of me.
"Talk," I order.
Gustave turns his head away, fixing his gaze on the mold-streaked wall as if it might absolve him. His jaw locks. Lips thin. He’s always been good at silence—weaponized it my entire life.
"Well," Nico says, stepping into his line of sight, forcing him to look. "Here’s what I know. You sent me to Caracas to die. You wanted Silvestre to kill me."
A pause. Sharpened. "Why?"
Gustave doesn’t look at him. His mouth twists with something close to disgust. "What difference does it make?" he snaps. "You’re going to kill me anyway."
The gunshot is deafening in the enclosed space as Nico puts a round through his foot. Gustave screams. Tries to fold forward, but the chair holds him upright, merciless. I flinch, but not from pity. I flinch because the man holding the gun is my younger brother. The kid who used to steal my espresso and swear he hated violence. He wasn’t innocent—none of us were—but this? This version of him is sharpened. Tempered. Foreign and familiar all at once.
Nico levels the gun again. "You’re right," he says coldly. "But I get to decide if it’s fast. Or not."
"Don’t," I cut in.
