We’re bringing them home. Finally.
Now only Roran’s left.
“To your right,”Myko warns.
Footsteps. Approaching. I turn, ready to kill.
Two men enter.
One looks familiar—smug, confident—the other stares at the floor, trembling. Not sure from what, but I know better than to expect any good news.
“Where’s Roran?” I ask, voice lethal.
The smug one stops a few feet from me, grinning like he owns the place. Maybe he is. I don’t care.
No power radiates off him, but trouble oozes from his pores. His soul is green. Steady—he's confident. Too confident.
Where did I see him before…
“What business do you have with my wife?” he asks, venom coating every word.
My stomach twists as his words hit me like a slap.
Ivan.
I saw him before on my father’s old files. His head was shaved in the picture he had—that's why it didn't click.
“I won’t ask again.” My voice drops into a growl. “Where is she?”
I step forward, hand tightening around the pendant in my pocket, soaking its warmth—trying to keep myself grounded.
“I think Fedor pampered you, boy,” Ivan sneers. “That’s no way to speak to the head of Miami’s family.”
His gaze flicks down, following the trail of blood across the floor, brows slowly knit together.
He doesn’t like what he sees.
Good.
Before I manage to say anything, he whips a knife from his belt and hurls it straight at me.
I catch it mid-air with only two fingers—seconds before it stabs my shoulder. No effort. No hesitation, my gaze locked on him.
“He’s trying to test me,”I mutter to Myko.“Tell my father Ivan’s here. I might have to kill him.”
Myko doesn’t reply. That’s permission enough.
I twirl the blade between my fingers. “Hope that’s not your best magic trick,” I mock. “Bit underwhelming.”
Ivan’s grin widens. He enjoys playing games, that much is clear.
“Where’s Roran?” I snap this time, getting impatient.
He glances at the other man.
“Vor.” He calls.
The man flinches, then slides the strap of the black sack off his shoulder and hands it over. Ivan reaches inside, glaring straight at me.
