“Shut the fuck up, Flame. He almost clipped my nails from my sniper hand, Godfather!”

“It didn’t happen.” Flame pauses flipping his lighter.

I narrow my eyes. “You wanted to do it.”

“But I didn’t. And stop moaning to Ghost like a little kid.”

“I’m going to—”

“Enough.” Godfather sighs, staring down at me. “Do you have the time to bicker with Flame right now? Shouldn’t you go after your wife?”

My throat bobs up and down with a swallow. “You saw how mad she got. Besides, I’ve already let her go.”

“Have you?”

“Yes, I have. Aren’t you the one who told me I’m dangerous to those I care about?”

“She didn’t seem to mind your craziness.”

I stare at him, unsure. “Really?”

“She was more worried about saving you, and did everything in her might to have as much manpower as possible. She was trembling when she found out you were taken by Rolan.”

That means…she cares, right?

Hope mounts and explodes in my chest with a force that leaves me breathless for a second. She would probably kick me in the balls if I chased her, though. But would it be worth it? Fuck yes.

Godfather slaps me upside the head, and I groan. “Ow. What was that for?”

“You’re married, already. Stop making people worry about you.”

“You…” I scratch the back of my head. “You don’t have to worry. I’ve changed.”

Flame scoffs from the background. “Changed, my arse.”

“Piss off, Flame. Your job here is done.”

“I think I’ll stick around for some time. Take me with you to the Russians. Heard there’s much more action there.”

“Over my dead body.”

“That won’t be a problem, punk.” He points his lighter at me, then flips it. “I made you.”

“Made me?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Fuck you.” I sigh, then focus back on Godfather. “Anyway, I’m a grown-up.”

“Then act like it.” He flicks my forehead. “And come visit. Elle asks about you.”

“She does?” I whisper my bemusement. “After everything that’s happened?”

“Not everyone is hardened like us, Kyle. She doesn’t hold a grudge against you—for reasons unknown.”

“The little punk always made people forgive him fast,” Flame says.

“It’s because of the charming face you’ll never have, Flame. Stop being jealous.” My mother said I get it from my father, but, apparently, that’s not Niall and I’m not a Fitzpatrick.

If my father is Russian and has been around long enough to have me, then he should be in his late fifties or early sixties…

The sound of footsteps cut into my thoughts as guards barge inside. Flame straightens.

“They’re Russians,” I say, squinting to recognize whose men they are. The showoff Mikhail. He always has his guards storm in before his majesty comes along.

No idea why he came here in the first place. Wait a fucking second…

I already called him and gave him evidence that ye’re his boy, so if he does want ye, he’ll show up.

Rolan’s words roll in my head with crystal clarity.

My mouth hangs open as Mikhail rushes inside, holding a gun. He’s old, around his late fifties or early sixties, and yet, he’s still in shape, aside from the panting.

“Where is he…?” He trails off when his eyes meet mine.

I see it then, the thing I was too blind to see over the years—the resemblance. Though his hair is sprinkled with white strands, it’s the same color as mine. His angular jaw and the shape of his eyes…they’re the exact fucking same as mine.

How the hell have I not noticed that before? Well, I never had a reason to believe Niall wasn’t my biological father, but still.

Mikhail studies Rolan’s body, and once he makes sure he’s dead, he approaches me slowly, expression softening. His guards remain behind, their guns tucked in front of them.

“You okay?” he asks, his accent thicker than usual.

“Why would you care?” I draw in a breath, then release it through my nose. I have no time for this. I should bribe Ruslan and Katia to give me tips on how to approach Rai without endangering my balls.

“I didn’t know.” He sheathes his gun under his jacket.

“You didn’t know about what?”

“You. Amy didn’t tell me.”

I throw my hands up dismissively. “Well, surprise.”

He watches me for a second too long without saying anything, as if he’s seeing me for the first time.

Is this awkward, or what?

“You were there that night,” I say. “The night she died.”

“Yes.”

“Then why didn’t you fucking save her? You were supposed to—that’s why she called you.”

“We were in the middle of an attack, and by the time I got there, she and Niall were dead. There was no trace of you, so I thought you died, too.”

“I did, in a way.”

“I know. That’s why—”

“Save it.”

“But—”

“This changes nothing, old man. The only father figure I have ever had is right here.” I point at Godfather. “He’s the one who taught me how to survive, even if it meant killing to do that.”

I expect Mikhail to show hostility, because he has that petty personality and tends to act up whenever things don’t go his way, but he stares at Godfather and says, “Thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me. He grew up into a reckless bastard.”

“Hey!”

Godfather wraps an arm around my shoulders. “When he was young, he was weak and always felt sick. The other kids ganged up on him.”

Mikhail stares at me with an expression I’m seeing on his face for the first time.

Guilt.

Isn’t that fucking ironic?

“Too much information, Godfather,” I mutter.

He ignores me and continues speaking to Mikhail. “But even though they were way older than him, he kicked, clawed, and scratched them. Who knew that the little boy would grow up to be one of the best we have?”