Pavlov hasn’t noticed yet.
She trades a hard look with me, something close to a plea.Trust me,it says.
And I do.
I force my voice steady. “Easy,” I say quietly.
“Easy?” Pavlov repeats, disbelieving, but I’m not talking to him. I’m talking to my queen, who has never fired a gun before.
Izzy’s eyes flick to mine. She knows my words are for her.
“Steady,” I murmur. “Take a deep breath. Think about what you’re doing. Make the right choice.”
Pavlov laughs softly. “You’re finally afraid,” he says. “The Don of the Bronx begging for his son’s life. That’s new.”
He still thinks I’m talking to him.
Good.
“You see?” he continues. “All I had to do was separate the king from his army.”
His voice grows louder now, triumphant.
“My father understood it forty years ago. Kill the queen. Start the war. Let the Italians slaughter each other.”
My jaw tightens.
“He had me pull the trigger myself,” Pavlov says. “Your mother. My first kill.”
Rage coils through my chest like fire.
“But then you ruined everything,” he continues. “Your little truce. Your peace.”
He presses the knife slightly closer to Noah’s throat.
“So all I had to do was bring you here alone.”
“You’re wrong,” I say.
He smiles faintly.
“Oh?”
“I’m not alone.”
His brow furrows.
“I have a queen.”
My eyes flick to Izzy.
Now.
Izzy fires.
The bullet slams into the wall inches to the right from Pavlov’s head.
The sound explodes through the warehouse.
