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Debilitating in a way I’ve never experienced before.
Threats are nothing new. They pass as pleasantries in my world. And they’re not empty either. What happened to my father and brothers was proof of that. Ronan was only thirteen, but he was murdered like a man.
Growing up fast was a requirement, not a suggestion. So was vengeance for my father and brothers’ deaths. A show of strength to protect my men. My mother. Me—the final remaining male heir.
The thought of Leo ever paying for my sins the way Ronan and Arytom paid for my father’s runs my blood cold, trickling through my veins like icy water. The thought of Dmitriy ever touching Lyla—ever forcing her—makes me want to throw up. I wouldn’t view vengeance as a chore then—a necessity to stay in power and stay alive myself.
I’d filet all the men responsible, not just him. Butcher them like livestock and enjoy their suffering. Bring them back to life and torture them all over again.
But I’m trying to lull Dmitriy into complacency. Ease him into brash decisions.
So, I don’t tell him any of that.
“You know…” I pull the lighter I always carry out of my pocket and flick it to life, staring at the tiny orange flame as I harness my anger. Try to consolidate the roaring rage down to a small flicker. “Part of me thought this was a tantrum. An attempt to prove you aren’t the spineless idiot your father was. I thought you must have some secret weapon, some play to make. But you’ve stalled for months. Threats without action. I’m finished, cousin. The next time we speak, it’ll be your final words.”
Dmitriy laughs. It’s a heartless, grating sound. “Speaking of final words, say hello to Belyaev from me. I always admired his loyalty.”
He hangs up.
“Roman!” I shout, capping the lighter with asnap.
He hurries into the room a second later.
“Send Antonov and Rogov to Belyaev’s.”
Roman swears. “Grigoriy just got a text from Anya. Mila called her this morning, worried because Belyaev never came home last night. What did Dmitriy say?”
I don’t answer. I grab my phone and head for the door. “He shouldn’t have been able to get to him.”
Roman hurries after me, urgently tapping buttons on his phone. “They sent a box. It just appeared outside. Mila called it in.”
I say nothing, just keep striding toward the front door. How long it takes us to get there won’t matter anymore though.
Belyaev is dead.
I suspected it as soon as Dmitriy said his name. He’s in an inferior position, and he’s not an idiot. Dmitriy wouldn’t have played a losing hand.
He’s escalating.
His previous hits could have killed men, but didn’t. He knows as well as I do that killing me will lose him favor. It might have earned him some grudging respect, considering everyone else who’s attempted to is now six feet under.
But killing a member of the family—especially an older, respected man like Konstantin Belyaev—sends a clear message. I’m not sure if it’s a response to Leo’s existence or if he’s simply losing patience.
Either way, it heightens tensions to a new degree.
Either way, it means this needs to end.
He has nothing to lose.
But I do.
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
LYLA
Each inhale feels like a knife to the lungs. The cold here is sharp and extreme. Impossible to ignore.
In some ways, it’s exactly what I was hoping for when I left the warm house. The huff of my breath and the pain of each breath remind me I’m alive. Force me to focus on nothing else besides the cold air and the struggle of my body to stay warm.
