Blood.
Fear.
There is a code, unwritten and passed down verbally. Everyone has a line they will not cross—usually rooted in self-preservation. Ours is simpler: do what is necessary for the good of tomorrow.
In this case, I suspect my uncle has deliberately stepped back to observe my resolve. I do hope it wasn’t his suggestion to leave backstage so lightly staffed, because that would feel a little like cheating.
Here we are. The floor manager’s room.
My hand closes around the handle.
I push it open.
There he is.
Niko stands in the center of the room, one hand buried in Galina’s hair, holding her on her knees in front of him, her spine forced straight, her chin tilted just enough that the gun pressed to her temple is unmistakable.
“I expected you sooner, Valentino,” he says, voice calm, edged with amusement, like we’re discussing dinner plans, and he doesn’t have a matriarch on her knees, “You’re losing your touch.”
A breath of laughter leaves me as I step inside, closing the door behind me with a quiet click.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.”
Galina turns her head just enough to look at me, dirt smeared across her face, eyes still sharp, still calculating despite the position she’s in. I can almost admire it.
Almost.
“You wanted a conversation with my nephew,” Niko murmurs, pulling the slide of his gun back with a smooth, deliberate motion, chambering a round with a sound that cuts clean through the silence. “Speak.”
I move closer, unhurried, until I’m standing over her.
“What is this?” I ask lightly, tilting my head. “You drag my people into your mess and now you want to talk?”
Her lips curve, faint and unrepentant.
“It is how the game is played.”
Of course she believes that.
They always do.
Old blood.
Old rules.
Old ways of thinking that mistake brutality for strategy.
“I showed you my strength.”
A quiet laugh leaves me, my head tipping back just slightly before I look down at her again, something colder settling into place behind my eyes.
“You came at me through my friends,” I say, voice softening in a way that makes it more dangerous. “Through my family. And you think that earns you a seat at my table?”
Niko huffs a quiet sound that might be amusement.
“That’s the problem with your generation,” I continue, crouching just enough to bring myself closer to her level, though I still look down at her. “You don’t see the board. You’re sofocused on the move in front of you that you miss the war happening around it.”
Her gaze hardens.
