Page 136 of Nemesis

“Hello—?”

“Get your ass to my office. Now!”

The call drops.

“You fool. I should’ve ended your pathetic life years ago, but because you were family, I gave you unlimited chances⁠—”

I can barely keep up with the torrent of insults thrown my way when I step into my uncle’s office, flanked by eight of his best soldiers.

I might not be at my sharpest right now, but I can tell that something’s off. The seldom-used conference room down the hall is being set up as the Morozov Pakhan weaves a manic track into the expensive carpet lining his office, cursing as he goes.

“What’s going on?” I ask carefully.

His head snaps up. Thick, white snowflakes fall outside the large windows behind him, casting the room in a frigid light.

“Solokov called a meeting,” he says coolly. “And he has demanded your presence on the call. At the threat of dissolving our alliance if you do not show.”

What?

He storms past me, clothed in one of his signature Armani suits, armed to the brim. A wave of cigar smoke follows his movement. Why would Solokov be calling?

And why would he care if I show up?

Does he want me to come back to his syndicate?

I trail behind, following my uncle into the conference room. I don’t remember the last time I saw him in here. He prefers to do business in person.

Easier to determine loyalties that way.

“You will sit. You will speak only when spoken to, and you will defer to me if asked a question outside your jurisdiction. Understand?”

I dip my head.

Like I don’t know my place in this world.

Like I don’t understand what’s at stake.

I haven’t seen the man this unhinged in years. It’s a fascinating sight to behold. It might even be a touch cathartic, if it didn’t fill me with a sickening sense of dread.

Uncle takes the seat at the head of the long conference table. I drop into the empty one beside him as the large monitor flickers to life.

Our conference room is furnished with tacky Greek statues and angular chairs that probably haven’t been used in years. It’s the kind of place that Octavia and I would make fun of in low whispers in front of its owner. Uncle doesn’t really take meetings where he doesn’t at least have the option to slice off appendages if the vibes sour, so this place sits vacant all year long.

The monitor shifts, and his soldiers fall quiet. Another conference room appears, thousands of miles away in a building I’ve only ever set foot in once.

Absolutely nothing could’ve prepared me for the combination of figures sitting at the table on screen.

I dig my nails into my flesh, convinced I’ve passed out.

But that’s when the first words flutter through the speaker, shocking me to my fucking bones.

“Hello, husband.”

I’ve died.

That pissant I was just pummeling to death grabbed the knife from my pocket and sliced through my carotid.

Or maybe my uncle finally dented his barrel to my cheek and pulled the trigger.