I force myself to breathe, to hear the tremor in her voice, to see the raw honesty in her eyes,. But the question is still lodged under my ribs, needing to be asked.
“What’s the money for?”
Lucas steps forward before she can speak, lifting his chin in a way that makes me want to break it. “She’s helping me, all right? She’s my sister. She owes me that much?—”
“She owes you nothing,” I say, not raising my voice because I don’t need to. “And you don’t speak for her.”
He goes quiet, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—fear, guilt, desperation—I can’t place it yet.
Behind me, Vladimir finally speaks, his tone smooth and cold and threaded with that satisfaction he tries to hide but never manages. “There it is. The truth laid out without us having to say a word.”
I turn my head just enough to look at him, and he meets my stare with the easy calm of a man who thinks he’s already won. “You bring her into our world and expect loyalty,” he says. “But the first chance she gets, she prepares to run—and takes your money with her.”
The last part snaps something in me.
“That money,” I say slowly, “is not mine.”
A flicker of annoyance crosses his face, but he covers it quickly. “How are you so sure?”
“I am,” I answer, and my voice is so steady it makes something in him tighten.
I look back at Kira, and her eyes widen slightly, like she can’t believe I’m not already choosing violence, and maybe she expected me to be angrier, louder, but the truth is the only thing I’m angry at is the possibility that she thought she had to hide this from me, not the act itself.
So I ask her one more time, soft but firm. “Did you plan to leave me?”
Her eyes shine with hurt, and she steps toward me, small but certain. “No. Artyom, no. I wasn’t running from you. I just wanted to help my brother, I swear.”
I believe her, and Vladimir knows it.
He exhales through his nose, annoyed that the scene he choreographed isn’t unfolding the way he wanted, and he gives Boris a small nod, subtle but deliberate, and that is the moment everything turns. I realize they have been behind this all along. It is all too clear now. In Sicily they tried to get rid of her, twice. And when that didn’t work out as planned, they decided to involve Lucas to take her away with him. That also did notwork during their last meeting, so they choreographed this one to make me think she was lying to me.
Before I can react, Boris grabs Kira from behind, one arm locking around her waist, the other shoving a gun to the side of her head, the barrel pressing into her temple so hard she gasps. The envelope slips from her hand and scatters across the gravel.
I move. But Boris drags her back two steps, his eyes wild and triumphant, and the gun digs deeper into her skin as he hisses, “Not another move, boy. Not unless you want her dead.”
My hands go slack at my sides, not out of surrender but because one wrong twitch could cost her life, and for a moment all I hear is her breathing, fast and shaky, the sound of her boots scraping on the gravel as she struggles against his hold.
Behind me, Vladimir watches with that same rigid calm he always uses when someone else does his dirty work.
Lucas steps forward quickly, hands up. “Wait, this isn’t what we talked about?—”
“Shut up,” Boris snarls, jerking Kira tighter, making her cry out softly. “You were supposed to take her and disappear.”
Lucas insists, his voice shaking. “I just needed money. I didn’t ask for?—”
“No one cares what you asked for,” Boris spits.
Kira’s eyes snap to her brother, wide and betrayed, and something twists in my chest because even now she wants to protect him.
Boris raises his voice, speaking to me but keeping her tight against him. “If you want her to live, you’ll let her go. You’ll let her leave with her brother, far away from here. And you’ll forget whatever fantasy you had of marrying this girl. You’ll take Irina and keep the alliances your father worked for.”
My jaw clenches, and the taste of blood fills my mouth because I’m biting down so hard I can feel something in my teeth strain. I force myself to breathe, one long inhale through my nose, because rage won’t get her out of his grip, only calculation will.
“Is this you,” I say, turning my head toward my father, “or is this Boris?”
Then I turn back to Boris.
“Let her go,” I say, keeping my tone steady, every muscle in my body ready to break the world. “You put a gun to her head and this ends only one way.”
