I glance over at him. “I’m not a man who betrays his own.”
Ray studies me for a long moment, then nods once.
“Yeah. That’s why they call you loyal. It’s not fear. It’s choice. Scares the shit out of them, honestly.”
I look past the fence, toward the desert stretching endless and silent.
“Timofey’s the last family Igor’s got. His blood. His heir. When I move, it won’t just be cleanup—it’ll be succession.”
Ray tilts his head. “You afraid of the throne?”
“No.” I take another drink. “I’m afraid of what comes after.”
Silence settles again. A bird chirps somewhere above us, too loud in the still heat.
“My father used to say,” I start, surprising myself, “‘A loyal dog eats last, but he never starves.’”
Ray smirks. “Your old man sounds like a barrel of laughs.”
“He believed loyalty was the only thing that kept us alive.” I turn the bottle in my hand, watching condensation roll down my knuckles. “But I’m starting to think it just keeps us chained.”
Ray’s grin fades. He studies me for a beat that feels longer than it is.
“Maybe it’s time you stop being the dog.”
I meet his gaze. “And start what?”
He shrugs. “Being the man who decides who deserves his loyalty. Not the one who gets told where to aim it.”
He’s not wrong.I’ve known this day was coming since the first time Igor looked at me and saw a threat instead of a soldier. The shift was small at first—a hesitation before giving orders, a test disguised as loyalty. Then came the watchers, the questions, the quiet reassignment of men who used to answer to me.
Igor built an empire on fear and obedience, but he’s forgotten that loyalty isn’t something you buy—it’s something you bleed for. I’ve bled enough.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe being the dog was never my nature. Maybe I’ve just been waiting for permission to stop pretending it was.
Inside, Sarah laughs again, bright and soft. The smell of roasted garlic drifts through the window. The kind of life that feels miles away from mine—and yet, sitting here, it doesn’t feel impossible.
Ray taps the neck of his bottle against mine. “You can’t save everybody, Anton. But you can choose who’s worth saving.”
I don’t say it out loud, but I know. Ray’s right. I didn’t come here for strategy. I came here to see what a man looks like when he has something to lose—and to understand why I’d burn down the world before letting Mary become another casualty in mine.
30
Mary
Iwake before my alarm. For a second, I think it’s nerves. Then the wave hits—hot, rolling, mean.
I barely make it to the sink. Cold porcelain under my palms, water running, nothing in my stomach to throw up except air.
My reflection looks like someone I almost recognize. Cheekbones sharper. Eyes shadowed. My arms less soft than they used to be. Dima’s training has carved out faint lines in places I didn’t know had muscles.
It’s only been a few days since this “training” started. A few days since Anton decided I needed to know how to shoot, how to survive, how to stop being the kind of woman who apologizes when someone else steps on her foot.
Another gag comes fast, sharp, twisting up from somewhere deep. I lunge forward, gripping the edge of the sink hard enough that my knuckles go white. Still nothing. Just dry heaves and humiliation.
My eyes blur. Tears sting, spilling before I can blink them back. When I look up again, my reflection wavers through the glassy film—like I’m watching someone else’s life through fogged-up glass.
The boys told me that after tonight, everything goes back to normal.
