The threat hangs unspoken in the air, even more ominous because Sebastian doesn’t bother to give it form. He doesn’t have to. We both know that if I betray him again, he’ll kill me.

It doesn’t matter. Whether Sebastian believes me or not, I’ll never lie to him again.

For over an hour, I tell him every detail I’ve ever observed of my father’s business. Sebastian only interrupts to clarify certain points. When I’m done he nods slowly but doesn’t thank me.

I probably should keep quiet, but I can’t help asking him, “What are you going to do?”

Sebastian looks me dead in the eye, his face a pitiless mask.

“I’m going to kill every fucking one of them,” he says.

It’s what I suspected, but his words still hit me like a slap.

One of those men is Adrian.

Despite the fact that he went to my wedding to murder my husband . . . I still love my brother.

I don’t bother to plead for his life. I know Sebastian won’t listen.

All I can do is watch him leave the cell, my guts churning with misery.

I can’t see a scenario where both my brother and the man that I love walk away from this alive.

21

Sebastian

If I don’t have Dante or Nero beside me, I need another ally.

The obvious choice is the Griffins. Even with my father dead, our alliance still stands—particularly since the current heir of both our empires is Miles Griffin, Callum and Aida’s son.

The problem is that the Griffins are trying to move into full legitimacy. Callum is running for mayor of the whole damn city. The last thing he wants is to be embroiled in a bloody battle with the Russians.

But there is someone else I can turn to. Somebody with his own grudge against the Russians. Someone likely to feel Alexei Yenin’s wrath turned onto him next, after I’m killed . . .

I drive my battered truck out to the edge of the city, and then down the long, winding drive to the secluded mansion of Mikolaj Wilk.

It’s a spooky-looking place, even in broad daylight. It’s surrounded by so many thick and overgrown trees that the sunlight can barely penetrate down to the driveway. It’s a gothic manor house, dark and sprawling, with a large glass conservatory on one end, and endless towers, gables, and chimneys along its length.

I park next to the empty, leaf-filled fountain, then walk slowly toward the front door, so Mikolaj’s men have plenty of time to get a good look at me via the security cameras. The Polish Mafia is vicious and insular, and Mikolaj himself is hardly social. He and Nessa tend to stay locked up in their house, with very few visitors.

I knock on the door, expecting it to be opened by one of the braterstwo.

Instead, I’m greeted by Nessa Griffin herself.

She pulls the door open, her cheeks flushed pink and her light-brown hair pulled up in a messy bun on top of her head. She’s wearing a leotard and tights, and an extremely battered pair of ballet shoes. She’s sweating slightly, probably not just from the run down to the door.

“Sebastian!” she cries, her face alight with pleasure and surprise. Then the smile falters on her face. “I’m so, so sorry about your father . . .” she says.

“Thank you,” I say.

She hesitates, like she wants to do something, but isn’t sure what. Then, impulsively, she throws her arms around me and hugs me tight.

It’s a nice hug—warm and genuine. I always liked Nessa. I’ve never met someone so completely and truly kind.

The only thing that makes me stiffen in her arms is the knowledge that her husband is both dangerous, and intensely obsessed with his wife. I’d rather not start my interaction with Mikolaj with the sight of me embracing his beloved.

So I give her a pat on the back to let her know I appreciate the gesture, and Nessa lets go of me. Looking up into my face she says, perceptively, “Are you here to see Miko?”

“Yes.” I nod.

“I’ll go and get him. Come inside!”

She pulls the door wider, inviting me in. She leads me to a dark and gloomy formal sitting room with several sofas, a writing desk, and a cavernous fireplace.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Nessa says kindly. “Can I get you a drink?”

“No,” I say. “No thank you.”

“I’ll be right back.”

She runs out of the room in those scuffed and torn ballet slippers. Nessa is a choreographer, so I assume she goes through plenty of shoes while working on her arrangements. She must have a studio somewhere in this place.

Sure enough, after a few minutes I hear music resuming on the upper floor—distant and scratchy, like an old phonograph. Accompanying that, the sound of lightly thumping feet.

A moment later, Mikolaj comes into the sitting room. He moves almost silently. He’s tall and slim, fair-haired and sharp-featured. He’s tattooed across every inch of his skin—the intricate designs run down his arms to the backs of his hands, and even his fingers. They rise up his neck all the way to his chin, like a high collar. Only his face is unmarked.

I’ve only ever seen him smile looking at Nessa. But I know he’s brilliant, and utterly ruthless. He took on my family and the Griffins simultaneously, and caused a fuck of a lot of trouble until he was ensnared by the gentle heart of the youngest Irish princess.

“Good morning,” Mikolaj says politely in his slight accent. He grew up in the slums of Warsaw, and you can still hear it in his voice. Dante said that Miko almost exclusively speaks Polish with his men, and even with Nessa, who learned it during her captivity in his house.

“Good morning,” I say.

Mikolaj moves to the bar beneath the dusty, leaded-glass windows to pour himself a drink of scotch. Without asking, he pours one for me, too.

I take it from him.

Mikolaj raises the glass and says, “To Enzo.”

I raise my glass in return, my throat too thick to speak.

We both drink.

Mikolaj sits on the sofa across from mine, setting his glass down on the side table.

“My condolences,” he says.

“Thank you.”

It occurs to me that out of all the people I know, Mikolaj might understand the pain I’m feeling the best. After all, he too lost his adoptive father, a man he loved and respected.

I don’t know if that will motivate him to help me, however—considering that it was Dante who shot Tymon Zajac.

“What can I do for you, Sebastian?” he says.

I had considered many ways that I could broach my request. I turned it over and over in my head, during the long drive over here.

In the end, I decided to be blunt and completely honest. I knew Mikolaj would see through anything else.

“I want to kill Alexei Yenin,” I say. “Also his son Adrian. His lieutenant Rodion. And as many of the rest of his men as I can. I want revenge for what they did to my father, and to Nero, and to my friends Giovanni and Brody. I want justice for the blood oath he broke.”

Mikolaj listens, motionless and expressionless. He doesn’t answer, waiting for me to continue.

“Yenin is a mutual enemy of ours. He’s a grudge-holder and an oath-breaker. He probably blames you for the death of Kolya Kristoff as much as he blames my family. He probably blames the Griffins even more. I believe he’ll try to attack you and the Griffins in turn, once he’s eradicated my family.”