The Ashfords think they’ve won something tonight. They think they’ve struck a fatal blow.
They’re wrong.
This is just the beginning.
Later, I sit alone in my study. The house is in full mourning with black cloths draped over mirrors. My staff move silently through the halls, the usual activity and noise reduced to respectful quiet.
I hold a photograph of Alexei and me, maybe fifteen years ago. We’re at our family's lake house. Alexei is thirteen in this photo and he’s laughing at something I said, his head thrown back, joy radiating from every part of him. I’m looking at him with pride mixed with exasperation mixed with love.
My baby brother. An answer to a prayer. The miracle child after my parents struggled so hard to have a second child. Always so spoiled and carefree. I made sure he never had to shoulder the responsibilities I did. I made sure he could have a life outside this organization, if he wanted it. I made sure he could laugh like he does in this photo.
And tonight, someone took that away. Someone stole his future, his laughter, hislife.
A single tear slides down my cheek before I can stop it. Just one. I won’t allow myself more than that. I can’t afford to break down, not when there’s so much to do.
“I failed you,” I tell the photograph and the boy who’s not here to listen. “I promised I’d always protect you, and I failed.”
The silence in the study is deafening.
I set the photo down carefully and reverently on my desk. Then I pull out a fresh sheet of paper and begin to write. Names. Locations. Resources. Plans.
The Ashfords will pay for what they’ve done.
Every. Single. One of them.
I’ll make sure of it.
1
VERA
I shouldn’t be here.
The thought repeats in my head like a warning I’m choosing to ignore. I stand at the very back of the cemetery, hidden among a cluster of distant mourners and curiosity seekers who probably didn’t even know Alexei Volkov.
The black veil obscures my face, heavy lace hanging from the wide brim of my hat, but it’s not enough. It willneverbe enough. If anyone recognizes me—if anyone realizes Vincent Ashford’s oldest daughter is here…
I can’t finish the thought or afford to think about what would happen.
But Ihadto come. I had to say goodbye, even from this distance. Even if Alexei will never know I was here.
The August sun beats down mercilessly, turning the cemetery into an oven. Sweat trickles down my spine beneath the conservative black dress I chose specifically because it wouldn’t stand out.
My throat is dry, my head pounds, and the heavy veil makes it hard to breathe. The air shimmers with heat, making everything look unreal, like I’m watching this scene through water.
Maybe that’s better. Maybe if it doesn’t feel real, my heart won’t shatter completely.
From here, I can see the gravesite and the mahogany casket suspended over the open earth. The wall of flowers—white roses and lilies, so many flowers, the scent reaches even to the back of the crowd. The priest in his black robes, prayer book open, his voice a distant murmur I can’t quite hear over the thundering of my own pulse.
And I can seehim. Dimitri Volkov.
Alexei’s older brother stands at the graveside like a monument carved from stone. I’ve only seen him in photographs before—grainy surveillance photos my father kept in his office, distant glimpses at neutral territory meetings I wasn’t supposed to know about. But none of those prepared me for the reality of him.
He’smassive. That’s the first thing that strikes me. He’s at least six-foot-three, maybe taller, with shoulders so broad, they strain against his well-fitted black suit.
Where Alexei was lean and graceful, with elegant lines and easy smiles, Dimitri is power and barely restrained violence wrapped in expensive fabric. His dark hair, almost black, is cut short and severe.
Nothing like Alexei at all.
