I can see it already—the gates blowing off their hinges, the flood of our men rushing through the courtyard, the Tanakas scrambling, half-asleep, for their guns. The chaos. The retribution.
“We don’t stop until Kenji’s dead,” I say.
Raf looks up. “Until every Tanaka who stands with him is gone.”
Miko tilts his head. “Including Kenji’s parents.” He doesn’t say what he really means. He doesn’t have to.Including Sora’s parents.I hear the words as clearly as if he’d spoken them aloud. But I refuse to let the thought bother me. There’s no room for sympathetic concern anymore, even when it comes to our sister-in-law. Her parents are just as guilty of betraying our family as Kenji—and besides, Sora’s cut ties with them. She must know this day would come.
Raf doesn’t even blink. “Yes.”
There’s a weight in the room that’s thicker than silence. Even Miko doesn’t argue. We all know there’s no mercy left to give.
Raf stands, moving slowly. “We brief the men in two hours. No word leaves this house. If the Tanakas get wind?—”
“They won’t,” I cut in. “They’ll never see it coming.”
He studies me for a long moment, then nods.
The sparring mats creak as Miko steps back, rolling his shoulders. “Then we move tonight.”
“Tonight,” I echo.
Raf gives one curt nod. “None of them will live to see the morning.” He walks toward the door, his steps deliberate.
With a gruff pat on my shoulder, Miko follows, muttering under his breath about weapons caches and route timing.
I stay behind, moving to the punching bags now that I no longer have an opponent. The gym feels too quiet without the sound offists and breath. I catch my reflection in the wall mirror—sweat dripping down my face, knuckles split and raw, eyes darker than I remember. I barely recognize the man staring back.
The guilt’s still there, simmering under the surface. I see Raf bleeding. Hear Evi calling my name in terror. Remember her expression after, the hurt and devastation when I told her she was a distraction.
I close my eyes and hit the bag. Once. Twice. Harder. Each impact echoes through the room, as steady as a heartbeat. I keep going until my muscles shake and the skin on my hands splits open. Until I can’t think about Raf’s blood or Evi’s silence or the sound of that gunshot anymore.
When I finally stop, my breath is ragged, sweat running down my spine like water.
Outside, the crisp autumn air seeps through my sweat-soaked clothing—cold, sharp, merciless. I stare up at the roiling gray clouds on the horizon, my fists clenching, and all I can think is, by this time tomorrow, Kenji Tanaka will be dead.
Or I will.
30
EVI
I push the fork around my plate, pretending to eat, but I barely taste the food. Butter and jam smear across the toast, but the act feels hollow. My hands shake slightly as I lift the fork again. My mind isn’t on breakfast—it’s on last night, on the chaos, on Sandro tearing through the ballroom like a storm.
I hear the front door open and freeze. My stomach tightens. Glancing through the doorway of the breakfast room, I catch his familiar silhouette as he steps inside. Sweat clings to his shirt, darkening large swaths of the fabric. His hair is damp and wild from his workout. He’s tense, coiled, and the edges of him seem sharper than ever.
I take a deep breath and push my chair back. My stomach churns, guilt twisting with worry. I can’t let him see how fragile I feel. Not now. Not when he’s been through so much.
I meet him in the hallway. “Sandro?” I say softly, stepping toward him.
He doesn’t look at me. But his broad shoulders bunch slightly, and he moves with that precise, controlled energy that makes my pulse spike and my chest ache. “Evi,” he says, voice clipped.
I step closer. “Can we… talk about last night?”
His eyes flick to mine for a fraction of a second—quick, guarded. Then he turns away, leading the way toward the stairs. I follow, heart pounding. I try to keep my steps light, but my stomach feels heavy, weighted with secrets I’m not ready to share.
When we reach the bedroom, he lets me step inside first. I linger near the door, watching him. “Sandro, I… I just want to make sure you’re okay. That you’re not?—”
“I’m fine,” he interrupts, voice sharp. He closes the door behind us, shutting out the world, though the gruff way he does it makes it feel like he would much prefer I be on the far side as well. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
