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“Emery says you drugged her.”
“And you believe her over your own brother?”
“Considering my brother has threatened my wife, attacked my groundskeeper, and tried to frame me for murder—yeah, I’ll trust Emery.”
Yasha's eyes narrow. He is a stranger. He is a man possessed.
"I was giving you the opportunity to back off," he snaps. "That was all a favor to you—beating the shit out of Sasha and dropping Pietro off. A warning."
"I don't need a warning. But I also don’t think that’s what you were doing.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’d ask what you mean, but I know you’re going to tell me anyway. You always were long-winded.”
“Do you remember that time we went camping upstate? You were probably twelve, maybe thirteen.”
“Is it story time?” he groans.
I continue as if he didn’t speak. “We saw that black bear near the camp, and you were so scared. I thought you were going to piss yourself.”
He stiffens. “Shut up, Adrik. Shut the hell up.”
I take a slow step toward him. “Do you remember what I did?”
He re-grips his gun nervously. Sweat beads on his forehead, but he says nothing.
“I made noise,” I say, answering my own question. “I roared and banged a wooden spoon against one of our cooking pots. I made myself big and loud, and the bear got spooked and ran off.”
Yasha shrugs. “Is there a point to this story?”
I nod. “There is. Because I think you’re just making a lot of noise and causing a lot of chaos, hoping the big, scary bear will get spooked and flee. But it won’t work, Yasha. At the end of the day, I’m a wild beast. And you’re just a scared little boy with a pot and a spoon.”
I see the flare of frustration in Yasha’s eyes. “I will take whatever I want,” he hisses. “Whether you willingly give me the Bratva or not, I will take it. And I will make you suffer when I do.”
Just as Yasha is finishing, I throw myself sideways and fire off a shot in his direction.
My story lulled him into a false sense of security. Just like I hoped, he relaxed. He lost sight of the threat in his midst: me.
He dropped his shoulders, lowered his arm, and pulled his finger back from the trigger. It gave me just enough room to make a move.
Yasha drops to the ground and then fires wildly around the factory. The shots echo off the metal walls. Somewhere nearby, glass shatters.
I duck through the exit, hiding behind one of the thrown-open garage doors.
“We don’t need to do this,” Yasha calls. He’s shouting, his voice filling the empty factory. “The only reason we’re fighting is because you married the wrong woman.”
I lean through the door and shout back. “We’re fighting because you raped my wife.”
“Before she was your wife. Back when you cared about me,” Yasha spits. “Remember when you tortured a man for ten years for hurting me?”
“And then you framed me with his murder. I’d say we’re even.”
“You would have killed Pietro eventually,” Yasha says. “If he hadn’t escaped, you would have murdered him. Once he’d suffered enough. But who knows when that would have been, right? Ten years of torture wasn’t enough. What he did to me… you couldn’t forgive him. Death wasn’t a harsh enough punishment.”
“Anyone who harms another person like that,” I say, barely controlling the shake in my voice, “deserves worse than death.”
There’s a beat of silence before Yasha speaks. “Does that include me now, brother?”
I press my back against the side of the building. It’s hot through my shirt. Aches are starting to set in from hauling Pietro down to the dungeon. From the explosion. From somewhere deeper and more mysterious, too.
“I remember when you promised me no one would ever hurt me again,” Yasha continues. “After you took Pietro away, you said you would keep me safe. And now, look at us.”
My thoughts pinwheel wildly. Emery didn’t want Yasha to die. The moment I first told her I’d kill whoever her rapist was—having no idea it was my own brother—I could see in her face that she didn’t want it.
Maybe there’s a way we can all walk away from this.
Yasha can’t come home. I know that. I don’t want to see him again. But maybe I can get out of this war without killing him. Maybe—
A thud breaks through my thoughts.
It takes me a second to understand what the sound is. Just a single second. But that’s all it takes.
I spin around just as the car comes flying out of the garage doors.
“Fuck!” I yell, raising my gun.
For a second, I aim at the driver’s side window. I have a decent angle for a shot. I can see Yasha’s head perfectly centered in the window frame. I could do it. I could end him. I could end all of this.
But at the last second, I aim my gun at the ground.
I shoot for the tires. One of my shots hits a hubcap and ricochets off harmlessly. The other two bite into the earth.
I missed my chance.
Then Yasha turns onto the overgrown gravel road and disappears.
