My teeth grind.
Favors.
He thinks this is a favor.
I take one step forward, then another, until I’m close enough to see the burst vessels in the white of his eye.
“Ayla is missing,” I say. “Arsen Sarkisian has her. The sun is up. Whatever you think this is—” I lean in until my face is inches from his. “It’s not anegotiation.”
Something flickers in his expression then. Not fear, not quite. Just the recognition that I mean every word.
He swallows, slow, blood catching at the corner of his mouth.
“It is if you want her alive.”
The room goes dead still.
Behind me, I hear Vaska shift near the wall. Dimitri says nothing. Pietro’s fingers stop moving over the keyboard he’s set up on the table in the corner. Even Ivan, leaning broad-shouldered and silent by the door, goes still.
I straighten slowly.
The urge to put my fist through Gabriel’s teeth is so violent it makes my vision pulse for one black second at the edges.
“You’re going to use her,” I say softly.
Gabriel lifts one shoulder as much as the restraints let him.
“I’m going to survive.”
My hand closes around the back of the chair so hard the metal creaks.
“You failed her once. Then you put your hands on her when she came back to you. And now you think you get to sit in my house and use her life to buy yourself peace.”
His split lip pulls into something almost like a smile.
“You think this is about peace?”
I don’t answer. Because no. It isn’t.
It’s aboutpressure.
He’s bleeding.
I know it. He knows I know it. His routes have been hit. Product’s been coming up short. Men have been disappearing from corners they used to hold clean. Every time he pushes, I push harder. Every time he reaches, I cut off the hand.
And now Ayla is gone, Arsen has her, and Gabriel Kaya walks into my house with blood on his teeth and terms in his mouth.
He wants relief.
He wants me off him long enough to breathe again. I hate him for being smart enough to choose now.
I hate him more for being right.
The door opens behind me. No one in this room is stupid enough to flinch, but the air shifts anyway. Heavy steps. Controlled. Familiar.
Angelo Amato.
He walks in like he owns the silence, dark suit half-buttoned. He looks like he came straight from hell and would’ve come half-dead if that’s what it took to get here faster. Scythe isn’t with him.
