“I don’t give a shit what the Morozovs promised you. Dinara and I brought all five families in this city together to launch a counterattack against the Ghost tonight. But I guess you already knew that.”
He lured me here tonight specifically to sabotage the alliance, choosing to let the Ghost win if it meant watching me fail and crawl back to him for help.
He bares his teeth. “You made a mistake, son. You chose a woman over the oath you swore to me, to the Bratva, to your ownblood.” When he speaks again, his voice is wistful. “Do you think I relished killing your mother, my wife? I didn’t. It destroyed something in me, but it was necessary.”
He pulls a knife from his belt, one meant for killing at close range.
“You think you have what it takes to be the pakhan of this family?” He holds the knife out toward me, handle first. “Prove that duty comes before all else. That you are only loyal to the Bratva.”
A sick sense of foreboding washes over me.
Ruslan stands directly between the two chairs, knife still in his grip. Katya’s sobs make her whole body shake, but our father doesn’t even glance at her. All his attention is on me.
“Prove to me you deserve the crown.” He extends the knife toward me, his voice coaxing. Like he’s a proud father teaching his son to ride a bike instead of asking him to murder one of the two people in this world he loves most.
I keep my face blank as I walk forward, my shoulders hunched, letting him think the weight of this choice is crushing me. My eyes move between the two women like I’m being torn apart inside.
Despite her look of misery, Dinara jerks her chin toward my sister, the message clear: Save Katya.
The fact that she’d sacrifice herself without hesitation makes me love her so much it physically hurts.
Every step feels like walking through quicksand. When I’m close enough, I reach for the knife with shaking hands, letting Ruslan see my hesitation.
Right before he hands it over, his fingers tighten on the handle. “Don’t do anything stupid, Kirill. My men are everywhere. If you try something, the punishment will be so much worse than death.”
I nod, throat tight. Stepping behind the chairs, I move slowly as if gathering courage. My father’s attention is rapt on me, waiting for me to make my choice.
I stand behind Dinara, getting into position. It’s only now that her shoulders shake, her body surrendering to the terror of the moment. Katya squeezes her eyes shut, as if willing this nightmare to end.
I wish I could tell them that I could never choose, that I’d gladly die so they could live, but warning them defeats the purpose.
So I do the only thing I can. I narrow my focus until the world disappears, leaving nothing but the pulsing vein in my father’s neck that I’m aiming for. After, I’ll lunge forward to shield both of them as best as I can. At least I’m still wearing my bulletproof vest.
I raise the knife, muscles coiling?—
The world goes dark, the overhead lights die, plunging the warehouse into pitch black.
Something hits me from the side like a battering ram. It’s Miron. I recognize his grunt as we go down hard onto concrete. The knife flies from my hand, skittering away into darkness.
His hands find my throat and squeeze. I drive my elbow into what I hope is his face and feel the satisfying crunch of cartilage.
He’s well-trained, but I’m fueled by rage and desperation and the absolute certainty that if I don’t win this, both women die.
Gunshots explode through the air, muzzle flashes lighting up the space in strobing bursts. Shouting, bodies hitting the floor. The sharp crack of return fire from multiple directions.
What the fuck is happening? Is this an outside attack or just chaos and panic in the dark? I pray to a God I don’t believe in that none of those bullets are aimed at Dinara and Katya.
Miron’s grip tightens, cutting off my airways. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision.
I drive my knee into his ribs, feeling something crack under the impact. His grip loosens enough for me to suck in a breath.
I flip our positions, using the momentum to throw him off balance, and get on top. I start hammering punches down into where I think his face is, knuckles splitting open, blood making my hands slick. I don’t stop, every blow is driven by fury and betrayal.
He bucks hard, trying to throw me off. I pin his arms with my knees and grab his head with both hands and twist sharply.
The snap is audible even over the gunfire and his body goes limp beneath me, hands falling away from where they were clawing at my wrists.
One less traitor our world has to deal with.
