“Careful, Kisa,” I say, voice flat. “I may forget you’re my favorite cousin.”
Santo’s in front of her before the last word finishes leaving my mouth.
Fucking Scythe.
Tall, broad, lethal, all that quiet menace he thinks makes him special.
“And I may forget we’re in an alliance if you speak to my wife like that again.”
I glare at him. Angelo cuts in too, low and final. “Watch yourself, Maksim.”
Everybody’s fucking dramatic today.
Fine.
I crouch, pull the pistol from my ankle holster, and hold it out around Santo’s shoulder toward Vasilisa.
She takes it without hesitation.
“I don’t forgive you,” she says, staring straight at me. “Or the lies that nearly got me killed. But I’ll take the gun.”
I give her one sharp nod then reach for Ayla’s back, guiding her forward just enough to bring her into the room properly.
“This is Ayla.”
Adriana steps forward first. Soft voice, open face, polished enough to make saints feel underdressed. “Welcome, Ayla. I’m so sorry it’s under these circumstances.”
Ayla nods once.
Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t relax either.
Her shoulders stay tight under that ugly sweater, eyes sharp and watchful, chin tipped just enough to say she’s enduring this, not joining it.
Vasilisa barely spares her a glance.
Santo does though.
That catches my attention fast. He looks at her too long.Much too long.
His eyes narrow with recognition.
Ayla doesn’t look at him at all.
“Alright,” Angelo says, stepping in before I can decide whether that matters. “We have to go. It’s going to be a long night.”
Santo bends to Vasilisa. Angelo folds Adriana into him. Everybody’s saying goodbye like they might not come back.
Emotional Italians.
I look at Ayla.
She’s standing too straight, too quiet, anger still sitting under her skin like it’s waiting for room to stretch out. I don’t think about it. I just lift my hand and drag the backs of my knuckles over her cheek. Soft. Quick.
Because she’s still mine even if she’s fighting it.
Her eyes flick to mine.
I let my hand drop.
