"Then what is it?"
I considered lying. Considered giving her another false name, keeping that card hidden a little longer. But she'd find out eventually, and when she did, the deception would only make things worse.
"Rodion Rysev."
I watched the name land. Watched her search her memory, trying to place it. She'd been out of her family's world for over a decade—long enough that the name might not mean anything to her. Long enough that she might not know what my brother had done.
"Rysev," she repeated slowly. "Russian."
"Bratva. My family runs operations in Chicago, New York, Boston." I paused. "Your father and I were not on the same side."
Something flickered in her eyes. Understanding, maybe. Or the beginning of it.
"My father is dead."
"I know."
"Do you know how he died?"
I held her gaze. "Yes."
The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy. She was putting it together—I could see the pieces clicking into place behind her eyes. Her father, killed in a warehouse six months ago. A Russian family with operations in Chicago. The war between the Irish and the Bratva that had been simmering for years.
"Your family," she said quietly. "Your family killed him."
"My brother. Demyan."
I expected rage. Tears. Some kind of explosion. Instead, she just looked at me with an expression I couldn't interpret.
"Good."
The word hung in the air between us. I hadn't expected that.
"Good?"
"He was a monster." Her voice was flat, emotionless. "He beat my mother until she died from it. He tried to drag me into his world, and when I refused, he made my life hell until I had no choice but to run. I've spent twelve years hiding from his shadow." She laughed, a broken sound. "So yes. Good. I'm glad he's dead. I just wish I could have been the one to do it."
I didn't know what to say. This wasn't the grieving daughter I'd expected. This was something else entirely—a woman who'd been running from her own blood, who'd built a new life specifically to escape the violence I'd grown up swimming in.
We weren't so different after all.
"The men who came for you," I said. "They work for your uncle. Cormac."
"I know who they work for."
"They mentioned the Petrovics. A marriage."
Her jaw tightened. "I heard."
"Do you understand what that means?"
"I understand that my uncle wants to sell me like livestock to seal some kind of alliance." The bitterness in her voice could have cut glass. "That's how it works in that world. Women aren't people. We're assets. Bargaining chips." She looked at me. "Is it different in your world?"
"Sometimes. Not always."
"Honest, at least."
The car slowed as we approached my building—a high-rise in Tribeca with security that would make a bank jealous. Kolya pulled into the underground garage, and I waited until the doors closed behind us before I spoke again.
