“Good.”
I blink. “Good?”
“Anger is better than crying.” He moves into the kitchen and starts making coffee. Like we’re not having this conversation.Like I didn’t just curse at him. “Crying makes you weak. Anger makes you useful.”
“I’m not useful. I’m pregnant and useless and—”
“You shot Timofey.” He says it flatly. Pours water into the machine. “That was useful.”
The memory hits me sideways. The gun. The recoil. The sound. Timofey’s eyes going wide.
I swallow. “That was different.”
“Why?”
“Because Anton was dying and I didn’t have a choice.”
“You always have a choice.” He turns and leans against the counter. “You chose him. Over running. Over hiding. Over everything else.” His dark eyes pin me. “That’s useful.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
The coffee machine gurgles. Fills the silence.
“Why hasn’t he contacted us?” The words burst out before I can stop them. “It’s been three days. Three. Boris is with him. Boris has phones. Encrypted ones. Untraceable ones. Why can’t he just—?” My voice cracks. “Why can’t he just let me know he’s alive?”
Dima’s quiet for a long moment. Then: “Because The Reaper doesn’t check in.”
I stare at him. “What?”
“The Reaper.” He pours two cups of coffee. Slides one to me. “That’s what they call him. In Moscow. In the Bratva. When he’s working.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“Everyone who’s smart enough to be afraid.”
The kitchen door swings open. Lev walks in, phone in hand, grinning. “Are we talking about the boss’s reputation? Oh, this is gonna be good.”
“No,” Dima says.
“Yes,” Lev says at the same time. He hops onto the counter—the same spot Anton always told him not to sit—and grins at me. “You want to know why he’s not calling? Because when Anton goes full Reaper mode, he doesn’t exist. No calls. No texts. No proof he was ever there.”
“That’s terrifying.”
“That’s the point.” Lev’s eyes light up. “There’s this story—back in 2019, before you—about a guy in St. Petersburg who tried to steal from Igor. Small-time dealer, thought he was smart. Anton tracked him for three weeks. Three. Weeks. Guy didn’t even know he was being hunted until—”
“Lev,” Dima warns.
“What? She asked.”
“She’s pregnant. And worried. She doesn’t need—”
“I want to hear it,” I interrupt.
Both of them look at me.
“Tell me,” I say. “Tell me what he does when he’s The Reaper. Because right now, all I know is he left. And I need to know who he is when he’s gone.”
Lev and Dima exchange a look. Some silent conversation I’m not part of.
