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And now years later, it appears that I’ve learned absolutely fucking nothing. I’ve been so consumed with Esme that I had ignored my duty to the Bratva.

I hid up in the mountains while Budimir hunted us.

And now, Cillian is dead because I ignored my instincts.

Not again. I will not let it happen again.

Eventually, I get the rocks piled up into a stable pyramid of smooth white mountain granite. Then, I fashion a small cross from some thick branches, lash it together with strips of bark, and wiggle it between the stones.

When I’m finished, I step back to evaluate my handiwork.

It’s a pitiful tribute to the memory of a good man. A few twigs and some pebbles in this fucking shithole of a world.

But it’s all I have to offer.

The pain in my chest has now dulled to a hollowness that swallows emotion. I think about Esme, about her beautiful dark hair, her hazel-gold eyes, and her easy, open smile.

I still feel love when I think of her. But I have to try and let go of the possessiveness. Her hold on me is what caused me to lose my way.

She left. So let her be gone.

If I want to focus on what I have to do next, it’s my only option.

She’s probably driving as far from this nightmare as she can. She’s carrying my baby, and in a few months, I will have a child.

But I no longer assume that I will see or even know that child.

The baby is lost to me. Just like she is.

I look again at the makeshift remembrance in front of me and feel the hollowness in my chest grow.

I always assumed that Cillian would be my right-hand man when I became don. Now, I’m looking at a different reality.

He won’t be my second, but rather the ghost on my shoulder, reminding me never to lose focus again.

I have lost everything now. I have lost my father, my best friend, my wife and my child. Budimir has picked away at me, bite by bite by bite, like a vulture plucking a carcass down to the bone.

I have nothing left anymore.

Nothing but revenge.

I turn and look out over the ravine and towards the snow-capped mountains beyond.

I take a deep breath. And then I roar out, “I’m coming for you, uncle. Do you recognize me? No, how can you—when I barely recognize myself? My name is not Artem Kovalyov. Not anymore. My name is death. And I’m coming for you.”