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I was a frightened, spineless kid. I believed every single thing that slid out of her mouth.

So when she told me to catch those wolf spiders from the garden shed and slip them under your bedsheets while you slept, I did it.

When she told me to drag you behind the garage and kick you until you bruised black and blue so she could laugh from the kitchen window, I did it.

I heard you screaming through the walls at night when the nightmares came. I lay in bed with the pillow pressed against my face. But I stayed quiet because her eyes were on you instead of me.

It didn’t stop when we grew up. She started handing me dirty work: off-the-books drops, skimming from the southern supply routes, and filthy jobs where blood was spilled behind Father’s back. And every time I got my hands dirty, she kept the evidence. She built a cage around me, bar by bar, until the door was locked and she held the only key.

“Obey me, Anton, or Father sees the files and puts a bullet in your skull.”

Our father grew fond of me, and I won’t pretend I don’t like the attention. He plans to make me the heir, and selfishly I want it. But I doubt she will let that happen. Vladimir’s love for me was never part of her plan.

When she told me to bring a hammer to your hand, I brought it.

When she told me to go burn your flowers, I burned them.

When she told me to walk into your bedroom in the dead of night, turn the deadbolt, and hurt you until you couldn’t stand to look at your own reflection in the mirror, I walked in. I turned the lock. I looked into your eyes, and I broke you anyway.

I told myself I had no choice.

Strike that out.

I did have a choice. I could have walked out into the snow with nothing the moment she asked me to hurt you as a child. Being thrown back onto the street would have been a thousand times better than living as her leashed dog while I tore you to pieces.

It made me sick every time. It made me want to blow my own brains out every time I left your room. But my disgust doesn’t erase what I did. It doesn’t heal a single scar. I broke you to save my own pathetic life.

When Kento walked in and put that bullet through my arm, I was happy. I was bleeding on the carpet, and I wanted to laugh. That crazy bastard looked at you like he would burn down the entire hemisphere before he let someone scratch your skin. If it comes down to it, he’s going to protect you. I’m sure of it. I think that’s why she hates him. She keeps telling me to keep you away from him. I am not sure I can succeed in that.

I’m sorry, Ilya.

I’m sorry for the spiders. I’m sorry for the locked doors. I’m sorry for every mark on your skin that I put there.

I hope you survive this. I hope you let that lunatic Kento build a fortress around you so high that no one ever touches a hair on your head again. I hope you have a long, happy, untouchable life.

And in another life… I hope you get a real brother.

And a much, much better sister.

Toni

Ilya

My entire life was a stage play, and every actor on it was rotten to the bone.

Alex is the one who brought me the letter. I am sitting with Dima and Lex when he appears, though sitting is a generous description of what I am doing. I have folded myself into a chair and remained there for God knows how long, staring at nothing while the world continues its hideous business around me.

Most of the guards are dead. Luckily, Alex wasn’t there when it happened. Alya had allowed her boyfriend’s men to infiltrate the estate. Her boyfriend. Christ, was he even her boyfriend? Had any of it been real? Had she loved him? I can’t tell anymore. But it is obvious that whatever her plan was, he was involved.

I shove the letter into the inside pocket of my jacket and zip it shut.

Anton is dead. Vladimir is dead. The Solovyov name is a bleeding carcass in the street, and half the Bratva factions in the city are already sharpening their knives to tear pieces off it.

I don’t care. I don’t give a single flying fuck about the territory, the syndicates, or the bloodline.

Grandfather has flown in from Moscow thirty-six hours ago to stop the chaos. The old bastard is currently sitting in Vladimir’s office with three phones pressed to his ears, executing commanders who thought about flipping sides and hammering the council back into line with terror. He is handling it because I can’t. I don’t leave the hospital.

I just sit there for days.