Greta is staring at me wide-eyed. She’s never heard me talk like this before.

“You heard Papa,” I tell her. “For every blow, return three more. Our fury overwhelms their greed.”

“He wasn’t himself that night!” Greta cries. “He never wanted that for you.”

I’m silent for a moment, remembering the thought I had as we finished our chess match.

I thought, Some night we’ll play our last game. And I won’t know it’s the last game, when it’s happening.

That was the night. That was the last time. And just as I thought, I had no premonition that it would be the last.

“It doesn’t matter who he wanted it for—me, or my brothers. It’s here, and I’m the one ready to meet it,” I tell Greta. “I’m going down a path, and I don’t expect you to follow me. I don’t expect you to support me. You know that Papa left you five million in his will—”

“I don’t want that money!” Greta cries.

“You’re taking it,” I tell her. “It’s yours. You’ve loved us, you’ve raised us, you’ve cared for us. You’ve been our family. You made Papa happy when almost nothing else could. You should take care of yourself now. Travel, see the world, do all the things you put aside when you put us first.”

Greta is frowning now. She looks angry—and when Greta is angry, you better watch out. She has a thick fuse, with a lot of dynamite behind it.

“I don’t give a damn about traveling,” she says to me. “This is my home. You are my family. Not sometimes—ALWAYS.”

“I can’t protect you,” I say to her. “I couldn’t protect Papa, or anyone else. This is a war, Greta. There’s no possibility of a truce anymore. We eradicate the Russians now, or they’ll pick us off one by one. One of us will destroy the other. It’s win, or die.”

Greta looks at me, her face blotchy and her eyes full of tears. Her hands are folded calmly on the table in front of her.

“I never married,” she says. “I never had children. I never made a family of my own. I threw my lot in with the Gallos, for better or worse. I helped raise you and your siblings. And I’ll help raise your children, too.”

“I’m not having any children,” I tell her.

I had thought that I’d like to, when I was dreaming of what my life would be like with Yelena. But now my wife is locked in a cell in the basement, and those dreams are torn to shreds and drenched in blood. There’s no future for either of us. No babies to renew this family—not from me, anyway.

“You don’t know what’s to come,” Greta snaps. “You’re not a boy anymore, but you’re not a man, either, if you still think you can predict the future.”

“You should at least leave until this is settled—”

“NO!” she cries, her cheeks flaming with bright spots of color. “I’m staying right here! And I’ll work however I can. That’s what brings me happiness, Sebastian, for as long as it lasts. I don’t care about traveling, and I don’t care about being safe. If I did, I never would have taken this position to begin with. Do you know, your father told me the truth about his job the day that he hired me? He never lied to me, Sebastian. Don’t think I’ve been some blind fool, protected from the truth! What I do is humble, but I am one of you, and I always have been.”

I’ve never been able to win an argument with Greta. She never backs down when she’s sure that she’s right.

And in this instance, what am I even trying to prove? That she’d be happier alone in Italy or sunny Spain?

“Now,” Greta says firmly, deciding that her point has been made, “Who have you got locked up below the garage?”

I look at her, startled. I didn’t think she even knew about the cell beneath the garage.

She rolls her eyes at me. “I know every part of this house, boy,” she says. “Remember that I’ve cleaned it since before you were born.”

“It’s Yelena,” I admit.

“SEBASTIAN!” she shrieks.

“Don’t argue with me about this,” I tell her furiously. “She lied to me, and she betrayed us all. We have no idea what she’s told her father, or what she’ll tell him next if we let her go.”

“You can’t keep your wife locked in a dungeon!” Greta shouts.

“Yes I damn well can, and if you’re so determined to stay here, you’re going to help me,” I say.

“Help you how?” Greta scowls.

“She needs food and antibiotics,” I say. “And you might need to change her bandages.”

“Bandages! Have you—”

“I didn’t hurt her. She was shot at the wedding. Dr. Bloom came to see her, she’s going to be fine.”

Greta scowls at me, not liking this one bit.

“Don’t let her go,” I warn Greta. “I’m serious. I’m not the only one fucking pissed at her. The Russians might be, too, because she did stop them from killing me. She’s safest exactly where she is.”

Greta presses her lips together but doesn’t argue. That means she’ll do it, even if she doesn’t like it.

With that settled, I get up from the table.

I have another conversation I’ve got to get through, which will be worse than the one with Greta.

I’ve got to talk to Dante.

18

Yelena

I don’t know how long it is between when Sebastian came down to visit me, and when the door to the cell creaks open again. It’s hard to judge time when you’re in a windowless room that’s almost completely dark.

I sit up as I hear the latch turning, thinking of all the things I wanted to say to Sebastian, the words I’ve been agonizing over all the time I’ve been trapped in here. But it isn’t Seb who opens the door—it’s Greta.

I search her face to see if she hates me too, as everyone must.

She doesn’t look angry—only sad.

She regards my ruined wedding dress with a pained expression—whether because the dark blotches of blood remind her that her friend and employer is gone, or perhaps because she started that day with the same sense of optimism and joy I did, only to watch it all burn before her eyes.

“Please don’t attack me,” she says. “I haven’t got the key to those manacles, so it would be pointless.”

“I wouldn’t anyway,” I tell her, and that’s true. Even if I knew Seb were on his way down here with a gun in his hand, I still wouldn’t hurt Greta. I’ve already done enough to tear the Gallos apart.

Of course Greta has no reason to believe me, but she comes into the cell without fear. She’s carrying a huge tray that must weigh almost as much as she does. On it I see a basin of hot water, a washcloth, soap, a toothbrush, toothpaste, fresh bandages, scissors, ointment, a bottle of pills, and a folded pair of clean pajamas. Then, next to that, a sandwich and a glass of milk.

I want all of those things badly.

A wave of gratitude hits me, almost as painful as pleasant. I don’t deserve Greta’s kindness. I got Enzo killed, and Greta was probably closer to him than to anyone.