Mikolaj takes another sip of his drink while he considers. He swirls the glass gently, so the amber liquid spins around.

“It was me who broke my agreement with the Russians,” he says. “When I fell in love with Nessa.”

“That’s what I mean,” I say. “Alexei Yenin is not forgiving.”

“Neither am I,” Mikolaj says coldly. “The Bratva made a deal with my lieutenants, behind my back. They convinced some of my men to betray me.”

He considers his drink again, though I know he’s actually considering my proposal. He sets the glass down on the end table with a sharp click.

“I met Alexei Yenin once,” he says. “In Moscow. I was there with Tymon Zajac. Yenin barely looked at me, and to Tymon he was arrogant and rude. I’m not surprised he broke the blood oath—he has no respect for tradition. And no honor, either. You know that he worked for the KGB, hunting Bratva? Only to become a pakhan himself. They ought to have cut his hands off and gouged his eyes out of his head before tattooing those stars on his shoulders.”

His voice is icy, without a hint of emotion. He rises from the sofa, and I do the same. Mikolaj holds out his slim, tattooed hand to me.

“I will help you get your revenge. I want all of Yenin’s territory added to my own. That’s my price.”

I shake his hand immediately, with no desire to bargain. His offer is more than generous.

“I think we’ll work well together,” I say.

Mikolaj gives me a thin smile.

“If we don’t, we’ll probably both end up dead,” he says.

22

Yelena

I hadn’t intended to escape from the cell. I was willing to put my fate in Sebastian’s hands, one way or another.

But now I can’t stop the fear gnawing at me.

Sebastian is about to go on a bloody rampage, seeking his revenge. I can’t blame him for that—he deserves retribution.

But I can’t just sit by waiting to see who will live and who will die.

At the very least, I could find my brother. I could beg Adrian to get away from my father. Maybe if Sebastian kills Papa and Rodion and the rest of the bratoks, he’ll be satisfied. After all, Adrian didn’t shoot anyone Sebastian loved.

I know my brother regrets what he did. I saw the hesitation in his eyes as he raised his gun to Sebastian’s head. It’s why he avoided me in the weeks before the wedding. He didn’t like the plan. He didn’t really want to be a part of it, I’m sure of that.

I think he would leave now, knowing that my father is doomed.

Or at least, I hope that’s what will happen.

I can’t even entertain the possibility that it might be Sebastian who falls by my father’s hand.

So as soon as Sebastian leaves my cell again, I start looking for a way to escape.

My options are limited.

I’ve been unshackled from the wall. But there’s no windows to climb out, and no possibility of tunneling through the walls or floor. I’m deep under the Gallo house, in a room made of solid cement.

The door seems to be my only option. It’s made of steel. When it unlocks, I can hear the thud and clunk of a heavy magnetic lock.

Sebastian is careful when he comes in and out. Greta less so.

I have no intention of attacking her—she’s been much too kind to me to do that, not to mention the fact that it would enrage Sebastian. But it’s possible I could use her indifference to my advantage.

The next time Greta brings me food, I take a long time eating the chicken and risotto she’s so expertly prepared.

“Don’t you like it?” Greta asks.

“I do,” I say. “I’m just getting full. Do you mind if I keep it to eat a little later while I’m reading?”

“Of course,” Greta says, standing up and dusting off her hands. My mattress is set directly on the floor, and the floor seems to have a perpetual powder of concrete dust, despite the fact that I’m sure the industrious Greta has swept it.

She leaves me alone to read.

I have no intention of picking up a book. As soon as she’s gone, I take the dishes off my tray and turn it over.

Sure enough, I find a large, rectangular sticker adhered to the bottom of the tray, with the name of the brand and place of manufacture printed on it. Very, very carefully I start to pick it off. It’s difficult because the glue is strong, and I don’t want to tear the sticker. But millimeter by millimeter, I’m able to pry it off the tray.

Once I’ve gotten the sticker free, I hide it under my pillow.

I don’t know for sure if I’m going to use it, or if it will even work.

But I have the option now.

23

Sebastian

Visiting Mikolaj and Nessa’s house had a strange effect on me.

As I left, Nessa came down to say goodbye to me. She stood in the grand entryway, panting with exertion, a wisp of damp hair hanging down over one eye, shaken loose from her bun.

Mikolaj reached out with one of his slim, tattooed hands, and tucked it gently back behind her ear. That hand has probably killed a hundred men, but Nessa didn’t flinch away from it even for a moment. She looked up into Mikolaj’s face, her eyes shining with trust and adoration.

Who would have thought a monster like Mikolaj could be loved by an angel like Nessa?

Yet it’s clear to see that they share a bond that can’t be broken by anyone, or anything.

I thought that’s what Yelena and I had.

Now, driving back toward my father’s house, I realize we do have something.

Because deep inside of me, I feel a pull stronger than magnetism, stronger than gravity. The closer I get to the house, the more powerful it becomes. I’m compelled to go back down the long, winding staircase to the cell.

I want to see Yelena.

I need to see her.

I told myself my previous visits were to rage at her, and then to get information.

But if I’m being honest with myself, I need another look at her face. At those eyes the color of twilight, and those lips softer than anything I’ve ever touched, and that body that haunts my dreams when I lay sweating in my bed, unable to sleep.

I want her and I need her, worse than ever.

As I stride into the kitchen, I almost run into Greta, carrying a basket of clothes out of the laundry room.

Greta sets it down on the kitchen table, eyeing me warily.

“Where are you going?” she says.

“Downstairs.”

“How long do you intend to keep her locked up down there?” Greta demands. “This isn’t right, Sebastian.”

I whirl around to face her, trying to hold back this fury that’s continually simmering right below the surface.

“What do you think I should do, Greta?”

“Forgive her or let her go!” Greta cries.

“I can’t let her go,” I say. “And I will NEVER forgive her.”

I say that with total certainty. But as the words leave my lips, they don’t ring true.

I ask myself, what would it take for me to forgive her?

She already risked her life to save mine. What more do I want from her?

Do I want her to beg? To grovel? What would prove to me that she’s truly sorry?