Page 71 of Nemesis

“I wasn’t your leak.”

All of our attention shifts to Vasiliy’s guarded expression. His lips are pressed tight, brows lowered in deep thought. He doesn’t seem angered by my father’s accusation. No, he’s wearing the same expression he wore when he prepped me for today’s meeting, explaining the political landscape all the while weaving my damp hair into one neat Dutch braid that starts at the center of my crown and finishes in a tie that meets my hip. Was that really only a few hours ago?

“But you’re right about one thing,” Vas continues. “If Solokov hasn’t placed a bounty on my head already, then my uncle certainly has. I know far too much to go missing, even for one miserable week.”

A bounty.

“Can you please open the window?” I mutter to the stone-faced guy on my left. I need some air. The car’s moving so fast that when he complies, a wild torrent of wind whips through the cabin, smacking my braid into the side of my cheek. It helps, though. The nausea settles into something heavier that has my tight muscles collapsing onto the body behind me.

Vasiliy seems to sense the change, because he repositions me against his chest, tucking my head into his collarbone. His fingers catch the tail of my woven hair before it can whip me again.

Our pace slows as we leave the highway, taking a back road where a rustic farm is the only dwelling for miles. Cows graze the pale green fields at leisure, and I can’t help but seek out the fuzzy creatures from my middle seat. It’s been a while since I’ve traveled by car. I much prefer the rhythmic consistency of the subway; the periodic starts and stops, and the gentle anonymity respected by all. How has my track been altered so completely in such a short period of time?

I knew who I was.

I was stubborn to a fault. I was the last to leave the studios and the first to walk through the doors the next morning. I was a fighter and a worthy opponent in a battleground I’d trained in my entire life.

Now I’m nothing but dead weight being shipped from place to place. Actually, in the last hour, I’ve become something even worse than dead weight.

A killer on the run.

Rain pours from the grey Chicago sky as we descend the plane’s steps into the murky depths below.

I didn’t enjoy the flight. By the time the tense ride concluded and our van pulled up to the tarmac, all the men were in such pissy moods that they spilled out of the vehicle and stormed up the massive steps to the jet in silence. Apparently, rich people don’t have to wander through airports during their travels…or maybe the efficiency was won through my new family’s criminal reputation. Either way, I did my best to pretend like I’ve flown dozens of times and was not at all close to soiling a barf-bag at the prospect of falling hundreds of feet through the air. Vas held my cover well, allowing me to undoubtedly bruise his hand throughout takeoff and landing.

Beneath the dark strip of my umbrella, I can make out a series of black SUVs waiting on the tarmac, as well as a string of booted feet stationed in front of them. In a prick of curiosity, I lift my umbrella. The line of massive men appears almost militaristic. Five of them even step forward, establishing some sort of rank between the dark-clothed group.

“Hope you had a good reason for missing poker night, Dad,” one calls out, a familiar wry grin on his face. The man looks only a bit older than me, but he’s easily double my size. His blondish-brown hair blows back in the wind, darkening as the rain picks up and soaks his form.

Where have I seen that grin before…?

“The best reason, son,” Alex says, laughing behind me. My mouth pops open as I step onto the pavement, allowing him to pass and greet the group.

Cousins.

The word is foreign. Terrifying and thrilling all at once. I almost wish I were meeting them at some other time in my life—back when I was stronger and sturdier. Back when I didn’t wear borrowed clothes that still reek of blood from the lives I helped end. Back when I could introduce myself as a dancer and nothing more. I would at least have a better shot at returning that wild grin lighting the boy’s face.

A hand brushes mine in silent support. I don’t need to look up to know who it belongs to.

“Boys, I’d like you to meet Octavia. Your cousin.” Uncle Alex’s voice cracks through the crowd like a lightning strike. Four heads snap my way. I wait for uncertainty, or disapproval, or⁠—

They rush me, all four of them, all different hues of the same chestnut-brown hair. Suddenly, I’m crushed into the strangest hug of my entire life, all limbs and joy under the shroud of pouring rain.

“Welcome to the family, cuz,” someone says above me, at the same time as another mutters, “Fucking finally. He’s been looking long enough.”

“Mind her arm,” Vasiliy calls from outside the bizarre huddle.

“Who’s he?” one of my cousins asks, dispersing the hug so they can get a good look at the other newcomer. He’s one of the tallest in the group, and his soggy jacket shrugs back as he steps to Vasiliy, eyeing him up and down.

“Someone with access to one hundred and nine ways to kill you if you so much as split a hair on her head.” Vasiliy’s voice is black ice, clear and deadly. Nothing like the tone he uses with me.

A wall of men forms in front of me, backs unfurling.

Shit.

Between the gaps of massive limbs (seriously, what are they feeding this family?), I can see my dad’s pleased smirk at the situation. Of course, he’d encourage a fight.

“Seems like you picked up a tick on the way over, cousin.” I recognize the voice as the one who first welcomed me, but he doesn’t bother turning my way as he says the words. Instead, his entire focus is locked on Vas as he says, “No worries. We’d be more than happy to squash it for you.”