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“Did you kill Papa?” I ask. “Did you?”

“The old man had it coming,” she spats, the mask slipping, revealing the festering, rotten core underneath. “Do you know what he told me this morning? He sat at his desk, poured himself a glass of vodka, and told me he was officially filing the paperwork to make Anton his sole heir.”

She lets out a hysterical laugh that is snatched away by the wind.

“I thought I was finally rid of you. You were considered so mentally sick I didn’t even bother,” she hisses, her eyes locking onto mine. “I thought my turn had finally arrived. I’ve worked three times as hard as you ever did! I balanced the ledgers! I managed the shipping manifests! I sat in those boring fucking meetings while you sulked in your room! And do you know what Vladimir said to me when I asked him for the seat?” Her voice climbs into a shrill, mocking imitation of our father’s deep rasp. “‘A woman does not lead the Bratva, Alya. The syndicates would laugh in our faces.’ He chose a whore’s son rather than picking a girl! He was going to hand the entire Solovyov empire to Anton—that brainless, violent idiot—just because he had a dick between his legs!”

The wind howls across the limestone, whipping strands of wet blond hair across her face.

“Is that what this is about?” My voice breaks. “The position? The title? You killed your own father because of a fucking seat at a table?! He was your father, Alya! Anton was your brother!”

“Don’t act all high and mighty!” she snaps, stepping forward, the muzzle of the gun driving closer to my face. “You never liked him either! You hated him! Every time he looked at you, you looked like you wanted to end him! I did you a favor, Ilya! I cleaned out the trash you were too cowardly to touch!”

“You’re insane,” I whisper. The horror in my chest is so vast it threatens to swallow me whole. “You’re completely fucking insane. I don’t… I don’t even know who you are.”

“I am the rightful head of the Solovyov syndicate,” she says, her chin lifting. “Or I will be. Once the mess is cleared.”

I drag my eyes toward Kento.

He is still watching me. He is quiet, and the look in his eyes is a hyper-focused calculation. He is waiting for the one-millimeter mistake that will let him tear Adrian’s throat out with his bare teeth without my sister shooting me amid it. Would she shoot me?

“What’s your plan now?” I ask, turning back to her, my voice deadening. “Kill me too? Complete the set?”

“Pretty much,” she says, tapping her index finger against the side of the receiver. “I mean, look at the board, Ilya. If I just take over, everyone asks questions. But if Anton went crazy, murdered Vladimir, and then fled the country? It’s a tragedy. A tragic power struggle within the family that leaves me, the grieving daughter, as the sole surviving bloodline to take the reins.”

She pauses, casting a glittering glance toward Kento.

“The only problem was your attack dog.”

A cold knot tightens in my gut.

“If I kill you,” Alya continues smoothly, “and the big, scary Kento Kazuma finds out, he would have spent the rest of his miserable life hunting me down. So… obviously, he has to die first.”

She laughs again. “Do you know how easy it was to get him here?” she asks, leaning toward me with manic eyes. “Adrian called his private line. Told him we had you on the edge of the quarry with a hammer to your skull. The great yakuza heir held his hands out for the cuffs the second he saw the barrel against your unconscious head.”

My heart cracks in two.

He gave himself up.

The man who has slaughtered rooms of men walked into a slaughterhouse without a gun just to keep a single breath in my lungs.

“He was so docile,” Alya purrs, watching my face crumble with delight. “Like a trained puppy. All for you, Ilya. Isn’t that romantic?”

“You’re an idiot,” I grind out. “That’s a horrible fucking plan, Alya. You think you’re smart? You think you’re a mastermind? Kill me, fine! But killing him?! The Kazumas will wipe your name from the registry! Kenji Kazuma will find out eventually and flay you alive in the middle of the street! You think you’re ready for an all-out war with the Yakuza?!”

“Oh, I’m terrified of the Kazumas,” she whispers, stepping closer. “Which is why I won’t be the one killing him, brother.”

“What?”

Alya lunges forward. I try to throw my hands up to block her, but my concussion betrays me, and so my balance tilts, my boots slip on the wet shale, and she grabs my left wrist.

She spins around, driving her back hard into my chest, pinning my left arm behind me while her right arm snakes around my shoulder.

“Get off me!” I roar, trying to slam her toward the edge.

She is smaller than me, but I am bleeding from the skull and running on pure adrenaline fumes. Her hand clamps over my right hand.

The gun is shoved roughly into my fingers.