Pietro moves first. He grabs Demyan’s arm.
Ivan catches the other before he can do something stupid.
Demyan jerks once in their grip. “Get the fuck off—”
I have my gun out and across his jaw before the last word leaves his mouth.
The impact cracks through the warehouse.
Blood spills from his mouth. His head snaps sideways, one knee folding before Pietro and Ivan haul him upright again.
Silence slams down over the room.
Nobody breathes.
I grab his jaw, force his face back toward me, then shove the barrel of my gun up under his chin until his skull hits the concrete pillar behind him.
Hard.
“Listen to me carefully.” My voice so quiet it’s almost not my own. “Nikolai fed your fathers scraps and spent them like ammunition.”
The muzzle digs deeper. Demyan chokes on a breath.
“I dragged our house out of blood and ash with my bare fucking hands.”
I lean in until he has nowhere to look but me.
“I walkbesidemy men.”
My voice drops lower.
“They get to go home to wives. To babies. To tables full of food. To warm beds behind locked doors.”
I press harder.
“I made kings out of sons your fathers would not recognize.”
The room is dead silent.
“So do not stand there and confuse myrestraintwith weakness.”
Demyan’s face is pale now, blood running over his mouth, but he still has enough stupidity left to whisper, “And what happens when her blood starts making choices for our house?”
I smile.
Slow. Mean.
“I amnotmy father.”
The gun stays at his throat.
Then I say it softer. “Are you yours?”
He goes completely still.Nowhe gets it.
I pull back just enough for the room to hear me.
“If that is the blood calling you, say it now. Let me finish what I should have finished withthatgeneration.”
