“Of course. Enzo is innocent.”
“I was terrified I’d miss, but then Enzo started squirming and ended up kicking Pyotr in the nuts. He dropped Enzo and I shot Pyotr between the eyes. I had to make sure he went down instantly, that he didn’t have a chance to shoot. Enzo saw everything."
My brother is dead.
The same brother I’d grown up with. Who protected me when we were used as part of a deal between the Bratva and the Dante Mafia.
The brother who threatened my son.
"He gave me no choice," Luca’s voice is apologetic. "I'm sorry, Katerina. I'm so sorry."
I can’t deny that there’s a part of me that wants to scream at Luca, to blame him for taking my brother from me.
But that’s only because I can't believe the truth.
But I remember how he was earlier when he came to see me.
The text he sent after getting Enzo from school.
"Pyotr hasn't been himself for months," I say. "The errands, the secrecy. At first, I thought it was drugs again. I knew something was wrong, but I never imagined…"
Luca moves closer but still doesn't touch me. "I think he might be behind some of the problems the Dantes have been having. Maybe even that ambush and stolen guns from the other night."
“I should have known.” Isn’t that part of my job, to make sure both sides are operating within the terms of the treaty they’d set up years ago?
"He was your brother. You trusted him."
"He used to sneak me extra desserts when we first came to live with the Dantes," I say, wondering what happened to the brother I knew and loved. "When I realized I was pregnant, he was prepared to take care of me. He protected me my whole life until…"
“We can’t know why he changed. Maybe he saw an opportunity with my father’s death. Maybe Alessandro disrespected him. Maybe Morozova offered him something he couldn’t refuse.”
Up close, when I look at him, I see a man with regret. Not that he had to kill my brother, but that it hurt me. I also notice a tear in his shirt with dried blood around it.
“You’re hurt.”
Luca looks down. “Huh? I thought it missed me. It’s just a flesh wound.”
“Let me clean it.” Without thinking, I push his shirt off to check the wound. It’s long but not deep.
“It’s okay, Katerina?—”
“Let me get the first aid kit.” I grab the kit from the hall linen closet and return to him. “Sit.”
He complies, sitting on the couch.
I clean the wound and put on a bandage, realizing that if the bullet had been a few inches to the right, he’d be dead.
I spent years hating him.
He knows that.
And yet he still killed his way through the Russian Mob to save our child.
Not for power or revenge, but out of love.
“There will be backlash.”
“So? What other option did we have?”
