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“You’re pretty for a man.” He cocked his head and grinned. “Wonder if Boss’ll leave you half alive so I can make use of you when he’s done.”

“You touch me, and you’re a dead man.”

“You don’t have to be alive. As long as the body’s still warm…”

“Fuck you.”

“Keep moving.” He pushed me in the back, and I walked along a short hall into a storage space with naked bulbs swinging overhead, throwing long, jerking shadows across metal shelving. The concrete floor was stained in overlapping dark patches.

My breath fogged in the frigid air.

“Orlov.” The voice echoed through the aisles. “Straight ahead.”

I walked toward the light.

Zasha sat tied to a chair in the center of the room. His face was a mess, one eye swollen shut, lip split, bruises spreading across his features. His chest rose in quick, shallow breaths. His hands were bound behind him, and his shoulders hunched in pain.

As I approached, he lifted his head.

And somehow, he tried to smile.

“Yuriy,” he rasped. “You took your time.”

Something deep inside me twisted painfully.

I’ll make them pay. Every fucking one of them.

“I had to fix my hair,” I said softly. “Can’t show up to my brother’s hostage situation looking like a hot mess.”

A weak huffing laugh escaped him. “Yelena…?”

“She’s okay. Waiting for you to come home.”

“Touching,” another voice drawled.

Bruno stepped out of the shadows, broad, unshaven, eyes hard and unflinchingly meeting mine. From his protest over Mancini letting us go last time, I gathered his brother had been one of the idiots who attacked us the day we bought the Christmas tree. Bruno’s hand was bandaged from where I’d knifed him that night at the club for speaking to Stanislav without permission.

Of course he held a grudge.

“I should’ve gone for your throat instead.”

“You should have.” He lifted his injured hand. “Let’s see how brave you are without Zhukovsky to hide behind.”

“I’ve never hidden behind anyone in my life.” I scoffed at him. “If you have complaints, take them up with your boss. He’s the one who decided your brother wasn’t worth a war.”

“Mancini is weak, and everybody knows it. He’s not even true blood. Let’s see how long he’ll stay in power.”

“We don’t give a fuck about Mancini and your business.” I doubled my hands into fists at my sides. “Your brother tried to kill us and failed, and somehow we’re the problem?”

“Yes, because you didn’t have to kill him.” Bruno’s jaw clenched. “My brother didn’t deserve to die like a dog in the streets.”

“He shouldn’t have played stupid games. The better man always wins.”

His eyes burned. “Fuck you.”

He whistled sharply, and shadows shifted. Men emerged—first four, then eight, then more. Pipes. Chains. Bats. A dozen armed bodies circled us like wolves.

I mapped them automatically, instinct taking over. On the left was the limping man, his weak side obvious and exploitable, his weight never quite settling where it should. In front, the pipe swinger was too eager, telegraphing every move, predictable in his aggression. And on the right, the one with the chain, all long reach and speed. He seemed light on his feet.