Small mercy. I didn't want more blood on my hands than necessary.
"And the Irish?"
"They know she's gone. Cormac's been making calls all night. He's not happy."
"How unhappy?"
"Unhappy enough to reach out to the Petrovics directly. They're pressuring him to deliver. Apparently, Branko is getting impatient."
I thought about Keira's face when she'd heard that name. The fear she'd tried to hide. The way her whole body had gone rigid at the mention of a forced marriage.
"He's not getting her."
"I figured you'd say that." Yegor paused. "What's the play, boss?"
"I'll let you know."
I hung up and stared at my phone for a long moment. The next call was the one I'd been dreading.
Demyan answered on the second ring. "It's early."
"We have a situation."
A pause. I heard him moving, a door closing. When he spoke again, his voice was lower. "Tell me."
I told him. All of it—the therapy sessions, the stalking, the background check that had raised red flags I'd ignored. The Irish showing up at her office. The four men I'd killed. The proposal I'd made in the parking garage.
When I finished, the silence stretched so long I thought the call had dropped.
"Let me make sure I understand," Demyan said finally. "You've been seeing a therapist for your insomnia. That therapist turns out to be Ronan O'Shea's daughter—the woman the Petrovics want for a marriage alliance. And your solution to this problem is to marry her yourself."
"That's the summary, yes."
"Have you lost your mind?"
"Possibly."
"Rodion." His voice carried that particular weight it got when he was trying very hard to be patient. "She's O'Shea's daughter. The man I killed six months ago. His blood is on our hands, and you want to bring his child into our family?"
"She's not her father. She hated him. She's been running from that world since she was twenty-one."
"So she says."
"So I believe."
Another pause. "You believe. Based on what? Three weeks of therapy sessions and a week of surveillance?"
"Based on looking her in the eyes and seeing the truth."
Demyan exhaled slowly. I could picture him in his study, pinching the bridge of his nose the way he did when one of his brothers was giving him a headache. "Get Kirill on the line."
I conferenced with our youngest brother. Kirill answered immediately, his voice flat and alert despite the early hour. He never seemed to sleep, and when he did, he woke like a man who expected violence.
"I'm here."
"Tell him," Demyan said.
I repeated the story. Kirill listened without interrupting, without asking questions, without giving any indication of what he was thinking. That was his way—absorb everything, process it internally, deliver his verdict like a judge passing sentence.
