When she told me that she knew nothing, that she had no idea what her father had planned, I didn’t believe that for a second. She knew that he was out to get us from the beginning. She knew it was a set-up.

But one thing I know for certain is that she jumped in front of that gun . . .

Nobody made her do that.

It was instinctual, immediate.

She wanted to save me.

Which means that whatever else she might have done, she does care about me. That part wasn’t entirely a lie.

But it can’t bring my father back from the dead.

I just came from the morgue. The police recovered Papa’s body from the Orthodox Cathedral. They found it under the triptych, along with the bodies of three of Yenin’s bratoks. They ran Papa’s prints through their system, finding his old record from his younger years, when he was arrested on charges of racketeering and money laundering. They called me in to identify the body.

My father looked so much smaller than usual, laying on that slab under a sheet, his suit and dress shirt stripped off of him. His skin was the color of cheese, with marks all over from the heavy wooden frame falling on top of him. And his face . . . it was almost completely destroyed. Not from the triptych—from the Bratva’s bullets. All that was left was one beetle-black eye, open and staring.

The police already knew who he was. They brought me in to shock me. Hoping that when they took me into the room next door, I’d spill the details of exactly what had happened at the cathedral. They must have recognized the other bodies as Bratva. Maybe they thought I’d tell them everything, motivated by revenge.

I refused to answer a single question. I said I didn’t know what had happened, why my father had been at the church that day. Worst of all, I couldn’t tell them that the bodies lying next to my father’s—one tall and lanky, the other broad and bulky, belonged to Brody and Giovanni.

Giovanni didn’t have much family, only a brother in prison. But I thought of the bewildering call Brody’s parents were sure to receive later today or tomorrow, as they sit calmly in their little house in Wilmette, reading the paper or watching television, never suspecting that anything had happened to their only child. I wanted to slap my own face over and over again, in pure shame and anger.

I lean against the basement walls—plain concrete, damp and chilly, because this little dungeon is the lowest level of our house, below even Nero’s old garage. I wish I could disappear off the face of the earth. Because I can’t face all the things I’ve caused to happen.

But that would be the coward’s way out.

I’m not going to kill myself.

I’m going to get revenge.

So I climb the stairs back up to the kitchen. Greta is sitting at the little table, dressed in clean clothes, her hair neatly brushed and tied back as always, but her face puffy and swollen from crying.

It’s strange to see her sitting. Greta is always bustling around, keeping her hands busy. She’s never idle. She hates to sit down even to watch a movie.

When she sees me, she jumps up and throws her arms around me. It hurts to accept her hug. I don’t deserve it—I don’t deserve her comfort.

“How’s Nero?” she asks me.

I went to the hospital before the morgue. That was the strangest sight of all. Nero is the id of our family—primal, ferocious, and intensely alive. To see him lying there, pale and motionless, only breathing because of the machines keeping him alive . . . it was unbearable.

Camille was sitting right next to him, almost as pale as Nero himself. She hadn’t changed out of the pretty red dress she’d worn to the wedding. She hadn’t left his side for a single moment, except for when he was in surgery, and even then she’d sat in the waiting room, crying until she had no more tears left in her body.

The dress looked wilted and sad, stained all over with my brother’s blood just a little darker than the material itself. I remembered how he’d flung himself on top of Camille, without even attempting to protect himself, or to fight back against the Russians.

I could never have imagined Nero behaving that way. I don’t think he would have sacrificed himself for Papa or Aida, or any of us. Only for Camille.

“They don’t know anything yet,” I say to Greta. “He survived the surgery, though.”

“He’ll pull through,” Greta assures me, letting go of me so she can blow her nose into one of the many tissues she keeps tucked in her pockets. “Nero is too stubborn to die.”

“I told Jace to guard the hospital door. I told him not to leave for any reason.”

I’m trying to justify myself to Greta, even though we both know how insufficient it is to try to protect Nero now, after I almost cost him his life.

Greta is too kind to accuse me. She already knows how much I’m blaming myself.

I have to discuss something else with her, but I don’t know how to say it.

So I take her hand and ask her, “Will you sit down with me for a minute?”

“Should I make us some tea?” she asks me.

“Not for me,” I say. “But if you want some . . .”

“No.” She shakes her head. “All I’ve been doing is drinking tea, until I’m shaking. It’s not calming me down anymore.”

She sits down across from me at the tiny, slightly wobbly table that’s been sitting in this kitchen since before I was born. So many of the things in this house were here before me and will probably be here long after I’m gone. A duration of time that might not be as long as I think, with the plans I intend to execute over the next few weeks.

Which is what I need to discuss with Greta.

Once we’re both seated, I look her in the eye. It’s hard to do that, because Greta’s face is so kind and sympathetic, so full of love for me. I’ve always been her favorite, I know that. And I’ve never deserved it less than today.

“Greta,” I say. “This isn’t over with the Russians.”

Her bottom lips trembles, and she presses her mouth into a firm line, to keep herself from letting out a sob. I assume she’s remembering her terror in that moment when the Bratva stood up from their seats and pointed their guns at her.

“You know what I have to do now,” I say to her.

Greta slowly shakes her head, her clear blue eyes fixed on mine.

“You don’t have to, Seb,” she says quietly.

“Yes, I do.”

“Why?” she says. “Because you think your father would have wanted revenge? Is that why?”

“No—” I say, but Greta pushes on, overriding me.

“Because I wouldn’t be so sure of that, Seb! Enzo told me a lot of things these last few years. Things he had done. Things he regretted. His hopes and dreams for you children. And especially for you, Seb. He said you were a good man. He said you weren’t like him—you’re more like your mother—”

“He was wrong,” I say shortly, cutting her off. “I’m no different from Dante or Nero, or even my father. In fact, I might be worse.”

“You don’t mean that—”

“YES I DO!” I bark, startling Greta into silence. “Greta I HATE Yenin. I’m going to find him, and I’m going to blow his fucking face off his skull, just like he did to Papa. He broke a blood contract, and he’ll pay for that, no matter what I have to do. I’m going to kill him, and his son, and every one of his men. I’m going to wipe them off the face of this earth, so anyone who even dreams of raising a hand to our family again will remember what happened to the Russians and shake with fear.”