Page 125 of Nemesis

No one answers my question. In fact, none of our men will even meet my gaze. I look around, finding nothing but defeat and doubt. Dad’s body lies at their feet, not yet cold, and they want to sit with their loss? My cousin, a kid they all helped raise, is suffering in our enemy’s hands!

Ben’s the one who steps forward. “You don’t have to worry about this,” he says thickly. “You had a major loss, Octavia. You deserve time to mourn.”

My next swallow goes down like a jagged stone. “Right now, I’m far more interested in making sure we don’t have another name to mourn.”

The sharp scent of blood hangs in the air.

“Octavia,” Ben repeats more forcefully. “I love you, but you are not useful in these types of negotiations. Your time is best spent with your father, saying goodbye. The Bratva will be in good hands⁠—”

“You mean my Bratva?” I snap, stepping up to Ben. I feel the burn of gazes leap onto the two of us as my statement lands. “I am the heir to the Siderov Bratva, am I not?”

The only sound in the room is my aunt’s stifled cry as she leans into Maksim and Nik’s arms. Someone must have cracked a window in an effort to air out the cloying smell of death, because a night breeze whispers through the hall. The decorative window drapes slap with the wind.

I wish Vasiliy were here…

“You are not,” a voice cuts in from my left.

I recognize the face, but his name is lost to me at the moment. He’s one of the largest in the group, with a buzz-cut and bushy eyebrows that pull down with irritation.

“If Ben’s too much of a pussy to state the obvious, then I will. Pakhan is a title passed from man to man. Until you are married, the next person in line to lead is your cousin or uncle.”

I glance over to Ben, waiting for him to refute the soldier’s claim. He never does.

No one’s coming to save you.

I thought people were supposed to look peaceful in death. Dad doesn’t look peaceful. Maybe that doesn’t apply to bodies that are pumped full of lead and bullets. His normally tan skin is a sluggish, blue hue beneath the ceiling lights. There’s so much blood I can barely make out his final expression beneath. I wish I remembered. Why didn’t I try to memorize it? Words repeat in my mind, still so crisp and clear from our chess match.

Examine the board, love.

Rage bathes my grief.

I wipe the wetness from my cheeks. My back is bare and unguarded. Twenty-something men remain, all looking for a sign of strength to stand behind. They communicate through violence and sacrifice.

My thumb brushes cool metal. I’m happy to supply both.

The man who spoke doesn’t have a second to flinch before my shots sing through the air.

One in the head.

Two in the chest.

All three bullets meet their marks. His body topples to the floor with a thunk that shakes the room.

“Octavia!” Ben yells.

“What—” Another voice gasps out, stepping forward. “What have you done?”

Now, this man, I remember all too well. Paxton. I’ve avoided him ever since the incident in the hall, when I overheard their lewd discussion on whether fucking me was worth the title. I didn’t tell anyone what they said that day. Back then, there were so many people who would jump to defend me. So many who cared about trivial things like my honor and my feelings.

His fist twitches, a subtle movement nearly lost in the group’s shock. My left heel shifts back just as quietly.

I’m not surprised when he charges me. Alex shouts out, too far away to intercept.

Too close to draw my gun.

I let him come, waiting until his fist extends in a brutal hook before dipping beneath his arm. My elbow catches around his throat in an offensive move I’ve practiced more times than I can count. He’s already crashing to the carpet when I twist, my thighs locking the cradle of his hips.

I’m so used to sparring with Vas. It’s surreal to transfer the moves onto another person’s anatomy. He squirms wildly as I press my barrel between his wide eyes and squeeze the trigger.