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Everything hurts.

My body. My head. My ribs. My arms. The inside of my chest.

I don’t know how I survived these past weeks. That’s not me being dramatic. I genuinely don’t. I feel so out of touch with the world lately that it’s like I’m moving through glass.

I killed a lot of people. More than usual.

My father knows. He keeps watching me like I’m some cracked bomb about to go off, muttering that I’m spiraling again.

To which I say: congratulations. The monster you manufactured is behaving exactly as advertised.

Dimitri knows I’ve been going off the rails with the killing too.

Speaking of Dimitri, he’s been surgically attached to my ass ever since he saw the bruises. Yesterday he stormed into my house, pointed a finger at my father, and loudly informed him that if he ever laid a hand on me, he’d shoot him in the balls.

His words. Not mine.

My father just stared at him, looking genuinely unsure how to respond. Then he sighed like this was simply another day in Dimitri’s increasingly theatrical existence and let it go.

Dima hasn’t let it go, though. Neither has Alexei. They keep hovering.

I ignore their questions, and I switch the subject when they ask about the bruises.

Either way, instead of worrying about me, everyone should probably focus on the far bigger disaster walking around.

Meaning Alexei.

Half the Bratva wants his head. Let’s just say he made a… questionable decision. Which is saying something in our line of work. This time, though, he crossed a line.

And I was a willing accomplice to his spectacularly unhinged plan.

So now here we are. I’m sitting at a long table surrounded by hags, all of them taking turns saying Alexei should be removed from his position and then killed. Which they may think is easy.

It isn’t.

The problem is Dimitri Morozov.

He’s the one running the Morozov empire now, ever since he shoved his grandfather off the throne. Everyone in this room knows Alexei isn’t just one of his men.

He’s family.

Touch Alexei, and Dimitri will answer.

Half the men here are smart enough to understand that. The other half are already calculating whether this is the opportunity they’ve been waiting for. They’ve spent years looking for a way to cripple the Morozovs.

Alexei just handed them an excuse.

It’s funny, actually. This meeting isn’t even about Alexei.

We’re supposed to be expecting a Kazuma representative, since Kenji never attends and his heir is basically Santa Claus.

But the conversation keeps drifting. “Morozov.” One of the old fossils smiles at Alexei. “I trust we will have no further… incidents while the Kazuma delegation is in the city. The last thing any of us need is another spectacle.”

“Shut your ass, old bag. Nobody asked for the lecture.” I roll my eyes. “You’re one cough away from the grave and still won’t shut up.”

The man’s face mottles an impressive shade of red. He lurches forward, already lifting a finger to start what I am sure would’ve been the longest speech of my life.

Then the double doors at the far end of the room swing open. “The Kazuma heir has arrived.”