I can’t even apologize for it. That only enraged Sebastian.

So all I say to Greta is, “I didn’t know what was going to happen.”

Greta nods. “I know,” she says. “You saved Sebastian’s life. You could have been killed yourself.”

“I almost wish I was,” I say dully.

I’m not being dramatic. I had one, brief, shining period of happiness with Sebastian. And now it’s destroyed. I can’t go back to the way my life used to be. Yet there’s no way he could ever love me again.

“Don’t say that,” Greta says. “As long as you’re alive, you don’t know what could happen.”

I don’t want to argue with her, so I just look down at the faded mattress.

“I need to check your wound,” Greta says. “I’ll try to be careful . . .”

She removes the old bandages, which are dark with blood on the side closest to my body. I look down at the place where I was shot, morbidly curious.

The wound is surprisingly small—at least on the front side, which is all I can see. It’s just below my collarbone, sewn shut with maybe a dozen stitches. The flesh around it is puffy and red, but it doesn’t look infected.

Greta gently applies the antibiotic ointment, on the front side and the back, then re-wraps my shoulder with clean bandages. She instructs me to take two of the pills, which she shakes out of the bottle into my hand.

I swallow them down with milk, then take a bite of the sandwich for good measure. I hadn’t realized I was starving.

“Go ahead,” Greta says. “Eat.”

I devour the sandwich in less than a minute. It’s a club sandwich, toasted, cut in half, and speared with toothpicks to keep it together. I’m not surprised by how delicious it tastes—Greta doesn’t strike me as a person who does anything halfway.

I finish all the milk, too, then turn my attention to the hot water. I’m filthy, and I badly need a wash.

“Should I help you take off the rest of the dress?” Greta says. “I don’t think it can be saved . . .”

My wedding gown was already cut away all around the wound. Not to mention torn and bloodstained everywhere else. Still, it pains me to watch Greta cut through the remaining fabric with her large, sharp shears. When she’s finished, I’m left in only a strapless bra and panties.

Greta doesn’t seem embarrassed by that, and neither am I. I use the soap and washcloth to give myself a bath as best I can, and then I brush my teeth and spit into the basin. It works reasonably well—I suppose this is how people did things in the olden days. And here I am in a dungeon, just like a medieval peasant who pissed off the king.

When I’m finished with all that, Greta offers me the clean pajamas, but we both realize I can’t actually put them on with my arms and legs attached to the wall by long chains.

“It doesn’t matter,” I tell her.

Greta frowns, obviously displeased with this entire situation.

“I’ll bring you another blanket,” she says.

By groping around, I discovered a small toilet in the corner, so I at least don’t have to burden Greta with anything worse. There’s a sink next to it, but the water tastes rusty and it only runs cold.

I do have one last favor to ask her.

“Could you leave the light on, please?” I say.

“Of course,” Greta says, frowning even more. “I’ll bring you some books to read, too.”

That’s almost too much for me. I have to look down at my hands again, clenched tight in my lap.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

19

Sebastian

I find Dante in his hotel room at the Drake.

He chose to stay there instead of coming back to our family home. Another sign that he doesn’t really want to be here at all.

I can hear his heavy bulk moving around inside the room, but when I knock, it’s a long time before he answers. Maybe because he has to limp over on his stiff leg.

He was shot in the thigh by one of Yenin’s men—who knows which. The bullet landed an inch from the femoral artery. If the bratok’s gun would have been pointed a millimeter to the left, Dante would have bled out in seconds.

Worse is the damage to his hand. He was hit in his right palm. The doctor said his pinky and ring finger might not ever regain their function.

All these things are added to the list of the damage I’ve done.

Dante hasn’t shaved since the wedding. His stubble looks thick and bluish, and his ink-black hair is messy, instead of combed back from his brow like usual. The deep lines on his face make it look as if he’s aged ten years.

I don’t bother to greet him with any of the usual questions like, How are you? I know how he’s doing—the same as me. Fucking horrible.

As I walk into the hotel room, I can see that he’s already made the bed with military precision. His suitcase is packed and zipped on top of the coverlet. Dante himself is dressed in fresh clothes, including his shoes.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“I’m leaving,” Dante says.

“What do you mean you’re leaving?”

“Exactly what I said.”

He’s standing next to his suitcase, his arms folded across his broad chest. His jaw is tightly clenched.

“What about Papa’s funeral?”

“You shouldn’t have one,” he says bluntly. “That would be an open invitation to the Russians to come finish what they started.”

“And what about us?” I demand. “Aren’t we going to finish it?”

“No,” Dante says. “I’m not.”

“How can you say that? Don’t you care what they did to Papa?”

A dark fire comes into Dante’s eyes. For the first time in a very long time, he loses his temper. In one motion, he seizes me by the throat and throws me against the wall. He’s not as tall as me, but he’s still plenty big, and the strongest man I’ve ever met. It’s like being charged by a bull. He knocks the air out of me with the force of the impact, rattling my brain around in my skull when the back of my head hits the wall.

“Don’t talk to me about our father,” he hisses, right in my face. “You don’t get to do that, when I told you this was a bad idea from the very beginning.”

Maybe he sees me wince with guilt, because he lets go of me and steps away again almost immediately.

“I know it’s my fault!” I say. “But you have to help me, Dante. We can’t let Yenin get away with this. He signed a blood oath. He has to pay for breaking the agreement.”

“He’ll pay when no one will do business with him again,” Dante says. “Not the Italians, not the Irish, not the Polish, not the Asians, not the MC clubs, not fucking anyone, Seb. That’s what it means to break a blood oath. You’re cast out, your honor is gone. He won’t be protected by the Bratva in Russia, or by anyone else. He can try to build his business, but it will wither and die without support, without anyone to trade with. And eventually, without protection, somebody will pick him off. He made his decision in anger, and he will pay for it.”

“That’s not good enough!”