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He looks between us and frowns. Then he does something I don’t expect: he grabs me and pulls me in for a hug. He’s even skinnier than he was last time I saw him—I can feel the ridges of his spine poking through his borrowed clothes—but he’s real. He’s warm. He’s breathing.
Mom might be gone, but at least Dad's still here.
“I love you,” I whisper in his ear.
He pulls back, but both his hands stay on my shoulders, like he’s silently begging me to meet his eye. “I’ll see you soon, okay?” His eyes are bright. Almost too bright.
Then he plants a kiss on my cheek, releases me, and slumps off down the hall with Mila. She turns the corner first, but Dad hangs back just long enough to glance over his shoulder at me. His expression is not one I recognize; it’s calculated and alert.
It’s…unlike him.
He places his hand over his pants pocket. He pats it once and points to me.
Then he’s gone.
I stand there for a long time before I glance down at my own pocket. When I stick my fingers inside, I’m stunned to find a piece of paper. His handwriting is as familiar as my own.
South entrance. Midnight. Be there, and bring a bag.
Don’t tell a soul.
Our lives depend on it.
76
ILARION
“A-are you sure?” Dima says, looking at the list of targets I’ve just given him.
I’ve been holed up in the den since we returned to the house. The medical wing should have been my first stop, but I decided that Taylor deserved that first meeting more than I did.
That’s what I told myself, at least.
Truth is, I just don’t want to fucking go up there.
“I’m sure,” I reply without missing a beat. “Benedict is not going to expect an attack so close on the heels of a Zakharov victory. He’s licking his wounds and regrouping. I’m going to attack him while he’s down. And I’m going to stomp on his fucking throat.”
Dima looks up at me. “This list is…ambitious. We’re going to need every single man we have.”
“That’s why they’re all arming up as we speak.” I close my eyes and picture what’s happening. Across the city, in rundown bars and nondescript apartments and dusty warehouses, Zakharov men are pulling arms from locked trunks and tucking knives into their sheaths. They’re gathering, one by one and two by two, a trickle turning into a river turning into a fucking typhoon.
We’re going to hit the Bellasios like a goddamn natural disaster.
And when we’re done, there won’t be a trace of the Italian bastards left.
I open my eyes and see Dima still watching me warily. “Go get ready,” I tell him.
He frowns. “You’re not coming?”
“I’ll meet you at the primary target. But I have to…deal…with a few things here first.”
Mila walks in just then. Her face looks drawn, but her eyes are laser-focused. “I put the old man in a room downstairs,” she says. “He didn’t seem particularly chatty. Kinda on edge, actually. Definitely not grateful that we just saved his ass.” Her thorniness isn’t hers alone; we’re all more on edge with Archie in the house.
“He didn’t say anything at all?”
“Pretty sure he’s expecting to speak to you. But I think you should go and see Celine first. She’s been asking for you.” She bites back a scoff. “She’s the only one of them who actually wants to see you.”
I grit my teeth. “I’m going up to see her now. You’re with Dima. He’ll fill you in.”
