Page 84 of Violent Pawn

“Mm-hmm.”

“This related to last night?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“You like him?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Then some pain,” he agrees quietly.

The rest of the drive passes silently, the impending murder of our own flesh and blood building both a bridge and a gap between us. A part of me wants Lev to speed up, so we can get this started and finished as quickly as possible, while also enjoying the beauty of the land. The Cayman Islands will never be somewhere we can vacation after today unfortunately taints it.

Eventually, Lev parks in front of the large house made up mainly of glass windows. It’s been years since we’ve been by, but nothing has changed. Right down to the dead garden Papa never cared for.

I take the lead, pulling my gun from my waistband. Papa isn’t expecting us, and someone who spent his life in the Bratva wouldn’t have a weapon close by at any given time or in any area of his house, so we need to remain vigilant and equipped.

Halfway up the path, Lev stops me with a hand to my arm before crooking a finger at the stone I was about to step on—and the four blood drops on it.

Lev retrieves his gun too and slowly paces around the side of the house. I back up, trying to see as much of the building as possible from way down here, and then the immediate area for curious observers.

Blood drops could be nothing…or they’re a lot more.

“Side and back are clear.” Lev returns to the front of the house and then points up by the door. “Cameras are installed all around this place. He’ll see us coming, so be prepared. I’d like to say he won’t attack, given who we are, but…” He tosses a grimace over his shoulder. “It’s been nearly three years, so who knows.”

He maintains the lead, checking the door and finding it unlocked. Another tick to the instincts that have me tense and scanning the area. If he’s home, having a door unlocked isn’t an abnormal thing for a person, but this isn’t a normal person either. Years of threats and fighting, of power and privilege, would mean instinctually protecting it.

Lev slowly nudges the door open, placing his foot inside to test the floorboards for creaks. Heel to toe pressing down, he crooks a finger for me to follow.

“Fuck.”

The four blood drops from outside get a whole lot bigger and more in here. A smudge in the hallway, a footprint beside it. A line of red connecting to a larger pool—and the body slumped within it, his throat slashed.

Papa.

It’s a dream and a nightmare wrapped into one.

Lev rushes forward to roll him onto his back, but there’s no point. Even if there’s still a pulse, it wouldn’t be going for long. Not with an injury like this.

I wander closer, staring down at our father’s face, searching for even a shred of grief and empathy. Even if we were on our way to do exactly this, our version would be healing. A decision made by our hands, not someone else’s.

Papa is no more than a stranger to me now. He’s aged a decade in the almost three years that’s passed. His slit throat, pale skin, the blood—I wait for some fragment of grief to hit. For my mind to remember this is our father.

It never comes.

Lev meets my gaze, his mouth a flattened line. He blinks once, nods, and like that, we make that the second of shared grief for a man who deserved none.

He stands and wipes his hands on his jeans. “Someone beat us to it. Same as the other Elites. Katya’s correct; someone’s wiping them out.”

“He’s the final of Ursin’s, so if she’s right about us all being a target, then we need to tread carefully. Dimitri and Katya should move back into the mansion for the time being.”

“I agree, but we’ll figure out the mechanics later.” He steps around our father’s corpse and heads for the hallway. “He has cameras, which means they’re likely recording. We might be able to figure out who’s behind this.”

“I’m half surprised you never tapped into them sooner rather than sending a soldier down every so often.”

He shrugs half-heartedly. “Couldn’t care enough about a man who had limited days on this planet left. We agreed years ago to release him and move on. Hacking his cameras meant having to look in on him.”

We pass a variety of small sitting rooms, a piano room, a small library, taking in all the signs of how Papa lived his final few years. It’s like wandering through a stranger’s home. There are no mementos, no pictures of us.