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“A file on what?”

“Kenji and your grandfather,” I say.

Ilya’s eyes widen slightly. “What do you mean?”

“They were in love, Ilya,” I say bluntly.

The breath leaves his mouth in a tiny, stunned gasp. “They… what?”

“Kenji was the young Kazuma heir sent to New York to establish the first American ports. He was 19 at that time. Mikhail was the heir of the Solovyov family. He was older, but he still wasn’t leading the empire because he refused to marry. They met at an arms exchange in Brooklyn.” I trace the edge of Ilya’s knuckles, watching the comprehension slowly dawn behind his green eyes. “They spent two years meeting in secret. They made plans to defect. To fake their deaths, take fifty million in untraceable bonds, and disappear to South America.”

Ilya swallows hard. “What happened?”

“Betrayal,” I say, the word tasting bitter on my tongue. “The night they were supposed to leave, the Solovyov family surrounded the docks. Kenji was ambushed. Shot four times, his boat burned, and his men slaughtered. Mikhail was standing on the pier beside his father.”

Ilya’s throat bobs. “My grandfather set him up?”

“That’s what Kenji believed,” I continue softly. “Kenji barely survived. He was dragged out of the Hudson by his own soldiers, spent six months in a coma, and woke up to find out Mikhail had taken the Solovyov mantle, married a Russian oligarch’s daughter, and consolidated the entire East Coast.”

“Jesus,” Ilya whispers.

“Kenji spent years hating him,” I say. “He built the American branch of the Kazuma syndicate purely out of spite. He married a woman he didn’t care about and turned his entire life upside down.”

I lean forward slightly, ignoring the flare of pain in my side, until our foreheads are inches apart.

“Except it wasn’t the whole truth,” I add quietly.

Ilya searches my face. “What was?”

“The file in Kenji’s archive had old surveillance logs from the Solovyov side,” I tell him. “Mikhail’s father had found out about them days before. He told Mikhail that either he surrendered Kenji’s location to be ambushed, or the Bratva would assassinate Kenji’s entire family in Kyoto.”

Ilya’s breath catches. “He saved him.”

“And ruined both of their lives doing it,” I murmur.

“That’s why my father always used to say we had bad blood with the Kazumas… and then suddenly things got resolved when I was little. That must have been when Kenji found out the truth about what actually happened back then.”

“By the time Kenji learned the truth, it was too late to fix the past. He was already married, already had two children of his own… and he had already taken me.”

“Then how come my family was the only one on the outside who knew who you really were?” Ilya asks, his eyes searching mine.

“It was never public knowledge,” I explain. “Kenji deliberately buried my identity. If the rival clans, or our own council, had known the chosen heir was an outsider taken on debt rather than bloodline, they would have smelled weakness. It would have painted a target on my back before I was old enough to hold a blade, and it would have put Kenji’s wife and kids in constant danger from internal power grabs.”

“So why did my grandfather know?”

“When the northern territory dispute brought Mikhail and Kenji face-to-face for the last time, the truth came out. Mikhail saw who I was and what Kenji was doing. Out of respect, and whatever guilt was left between them, Mikhail gave his word that he would keep Kenji’s secret. He ordered your father, Vladimir, to do the same when he was old enough.”

I reach up, brushing a strand of hair from Ilya’s forehead.

“It wasn’t something the whole Solovyov family knew,” I say gently. “Only Mikhail and Vladimir held that knowledge. And I think that’s why your father was so desperate to form an alliance. He witnessed the war between Kenji and Mikhail firsthand, and I think he was terrified that another one would break out under his leadership. He probably wanted to make sure the Kazuma and Solovyov families would never go to war with each other again.”

Ilya is silent for a moment. “Everyone in our families is poisoned,” he whispers. “What if we become like them?”

“I won’t let us become them, prince,” I tell him, and I mean it. There is nothing in this world that would separate me from him. “I will never fight against you”

Ilya stares at me, then he bites his lower lip and leans in, resting his forehead against the uninjured hollow of my neck.

“You’re so romantic,” Ilya mumbles into my skin.