Page 99

"Please." His hand grips mine weakly. "Please forgive me."

I lean closer, making sure he can hear me clearly, making sure these are the last words he hears in this life.

"You were always my son."

A faint smile crosses his face, peaceful and relieved. Then his eyes close, his hand goes slack in mine, and Gregory is gone.

51

ANA

The gunfire echoes through the estate like thunder. Each shot makes me flinch as I run through the corridors, my heart pounding. Smoke fills the air, making my eyes water. Bodies litter the floor. I don't stop to look at their faces.

I have to reach Samuil.

One of our captains tries to grab my arm as I pass, shouting something about staying safely where he put us, but I tear away from him and keep running. I follow the sounds of the heaviest fighting and it leads me to the library.

The sound of gunfire abruptly ends just as I reach the library. I skid to a halt and stare in horror. Samuil kneels on the floor among scattered books and broken furniture, cradling Gregory's body in his arms. Blood soaks through Gregory's shirt, spreading across the hardwood in a dark pool. My husband's face is twisted with grief so raw and devastating that my chest physically aches looking at him.

Gregory's eyes are closed. His hand hangs limply at his side. He's gone. I move forward slowly, my footsteps quiet on the debris-covered floor. Samuil doesn't look up. He's completely focused on the man he considered a son. Tears don't fall from his eyes, but the pain radiating from him is almost unbearable to witness.

My heart breaks for him. Despite everything Gregory did, despite the betrayal and the violence and the lives lost, I understand what this moment costs Samuil. He loved Gregory. Because he's spent a lifetime pushing away what he considered weak emotions, he's probably only now realizing just how much he loved Gregory.

A masked man from the secret society steps forward from the shadows, moving with deliberate slowness. The way he carries himself and how others look to him tell me that this, then, is the leader. His boots crunch on broken glass. The remaining society members part to let him pass, their weapons still raised but their attention fixed on their leader. He reaches up and removes his mask.

The world tilts beneath my feet.

I know that face. I've seen it before, in nightmares that have haunted me since childhood. This is the face that appeared in my fragmented memories, always standing beside that strange symbol carved in blood.

The memory crashes over me like a wave. Suddenly, I'm six years old again, standing in a corridor I don't recognize. Servants are rushing past me, their faces pale with fear. Someone is screaming. A woman's voice, high and desperate. I try to move toward the sound but hands grab me, pulling me away. I catch a glimpse through an open doorway of a man standing over a body, his hands covered in blood. The symbol is carved into the wall behind him, still wet and dripping.

That man. This man.

"Ana." My father's voice cuts through the memory, sharp and commanding. I blink and I'm back in the present, standing in the ruined library with my heart racing.

Ivan stands near the doorway, flanked by two of Samuil's captains. His face has gone completely white. He stares at the unmasked leader with an expression I've never seen before. Not anger. Not fear. Something closer to horror mixed with disbelief.

"Alexei." My father speaks the name like a curse. "You're supposed to be dead."

The man, Alexei, smiles. It's a terrible expression, cold and triumphant. "Dead, according to the official records. The entire family mourned. It warmed my heart to see all of you pretending to care so much about me."

"You staged your death." Ivan's voice is flat, emotionless, but I can see his hands trembling slightly at his sides.

"Very much alive." Alexei spreads his arms wide. "I climbed through the ranks of this organization, proved my worth, and eliminated my rivals. Eventually, I became its leader. All while the Rostova family believed I was rotting in the ground."

I look between them, trying to understand. "Who is he?"

"My cousin." My father's jaw clenches. "Alexeivich Rostov." He pauses to look at me. "The man you saw as a child with the symbol carved onto his chest."

Alexei lifts his shirt and shows his chest, where a scar in the shape of the symbol is there. He grins. "A small price to pay. A little pain was worth it. "When you have the right connections and enough money, even your death can be faked."

The pieces fall into place with sickening clarity. This man is family. Rostova blood. And he's been orchestrating the deaths of our relatives, hiding behind a false grave while he systematically eliminated anyone who stood between him and what he believed was rightfully his.

"Why?" The question tears from my throat. "Why would you do this? Why kill your own family?"

Alexei's gaze shifts to me, and the coldness in his eyes makes my skin crawl. "Because your branch stole everything that should have been mine. The titles, the wealth, the authority. My grandfather was passed over for inheritance in favor of Ivan's grandfather. A decision made by old men who valued tradition over merit."

"That decision was made generations before either of us was born." My father's voice rises with anger. "You weren't even alive when the inheritance was settled. Neither was I."