My chest caved inward as if something had physically struck me, forcing the air from my lungs.
My heart pounded once—hard—then seemed to stall completely.
I stumbled back a step.
My heel caught against the edge of the stone path, and I steadied myself with a sharp inhale.
“Please tell me that’s not true,” I said, my voice barely holding together.
“Please... tell me this is some sick joke.”
The words came out faster now.
Strained. Disbelieving.
“I don’t joke about things like this, Elena.”
The certainty in his voice—
The finality—
Made my stomach twist violently.
“No...” I shook my head, as if I could physically push the words away.
“No. That can’t happen. It’s not possible.”
My sister.
My little sister—Elena Junior—the only soft, untouched thing left from the wreckage of our family.
I had hidden her carefully, buried deep in California—far from everything that marked my past like a stain.
I made sure no one could trace her back to me.
Not Ruslan. Not Vincenzo. Not his enemies.
I had made her believe I was untraceable, that I might already be dead.
Five years ago, I even wrote her a letter, confessing my darkest sins.
I told her everything—the blood on my hands, the sins I couldn’t take back.
I confessed everything to her:
Ruslan Baranov.
My sins against him.
The woman I murdered—Amy Baranov, his sister. His weakness. His heart.
The woman he would burn the world for.
In that letter, I told her the truth.
That Ruslan would never forgive me.
That if he couldn’t find me—
