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“I’ll take care of him.” I walked to Yuriy. “Go with Tyom. Yelena is in labor. With any luck, you may reach her in time to witness the birth.”

Tyom placed an arm around his shoulders, guiding him out as Zasha whispered thank-yous through tears.

I ignored everything around me and kneeled before Yuriy. I cupped his jaw—gently, so gently—even though his skin was torn and hot with swelling. He leaned into the touch like it hurt and healed all at once.

“Look at me,” I murmured.

He did, barely.

“What have they done to your face?”

He tried to smirk, even like this. “I knew you only loved me for my looks.”

I almost choked on the sound that left me—half a laugh, half a broken thing. “I will love you no matter what you look like,” I said, voice thick, swelling with emotions I normally buried deep. “But I am going to tear apart anyone who thought they could touch what is mine.”

His breath shook, and he leaned into me, snaking his arms around my body to hold on to me. He was shaking, fighting back tears. I guided his head to my shoulder and brushed his beautiful hair, matted with blood. The more he shuddered against me, the calmer I became. Shock, from whatever horror he’d faced, was finally setting in.

“Sta-nislav,” he said my name on a broken sob. “I didn’t know if you’d come. I’ve never cared about dying before, but the thought of never seeing you again…”

“I’m sorry I’m late, kroshka, but I’ll make them all suffer. I swear it.”

I placed him to sit on the ground, propped up against a crate, and pressed a kiss to his forehead, then got to my feet. Bruno was still crawling, dragging himself toward the dropped gun, leaving a smear of blood behind him.

My blood churned the old song of violence and torture. I walked toward him slowly, each step deliberate, echoing against the concrete, final.

He looked back over his shoulder, face twisted with pain and terror. “P-please⁠—”

I shot the ground beside his hand, and he jerked it back. I kicked the gun away toward the far right.

“On your back,” I said, injecting every venom possible in my voice. I didn’t know this man at all, save for the one time we’d seen him at the Mancini club. And yet, I’d never hated anyone the way I loathed every single cell that made up his being.

He obeyed, trembling. “I was wrong. Please⁠—”

I planted my boot on his throat and pressed, not enough to kill, just enough to make his eyes bulge, his breath wheeze, his hands claw at my leg.

“Wrong?” I said quietly. “You threatened my family. Touched my son-in-law and laid hands on my lover.”

I leaned harder, and his choking grew frantic. “You were a dead man the second you touched him.”

His eyes rolled.

I pointed the gun at his head, saw the horror in his eyes. He was already dying. I could have waited with my foot on his neck, but I pulled the trigger. At close range, the bullet shattered his skull, and brain matter splattered on the ground. Bruno’s body went slack beneath my boot, the last tremor leaving him as the lights overhead shuddered once, flickering like the whole warehouse expelled a breath it had been holding.

“Boss,” Frank called, nudging the two men he’d hog-tied on the ground. Their faces were pale, eyes blown wide with terror. “What do you want done with them? Should I kill them?”

“Not yet.” My voice was low, controlled, colder than the air ghosting through the broken windows. “They’re going to talk. Every contact, every safe house, every back-alley player the Mancinis ever used. We’re wiping their crew off the map and taking Kansas City as ours.”

It was the only way to ensure my family was safe even when I wasn’t around.

“Roger that, Boss.” Frank hauled one captive upright by his collar.

Out of the corner of my eye, Nico tried to stand. He used the wall for leverage, dragging himself upright on one good foot. His left leg was bent at a wrong angle—broken, badly—but the pain in his face didn’t compare to the fury boiling in my chest.

This was his team, his responsibility, and his failure.

I stalked toward him. “You want to explain how in the holy fuck this happened?”

Nico bowed his head, jaw tight. “It’s my fault. I let him go in alone. After that… Arty told me we made the wrong call, that Yuriy mattered to you more than we understood, and⁠—”