“Ilarion agreed to that?”

  “Not at first,” she admits, her skin slowly flushing. “Ilarion had a good head on his shoulders. He didn’t want to get into it with Benedict, and he said as much. That just pissed Benny off even more. I guess he assumed that Ilarion was looking down on him or something. So, he decided to give Ilarion a reason to fight.”

  “Oh, no…”

  Mila sighs. “Benedict figured the fastest way to piss Ilarion off would be to mess with me.”

  “He didn’t!” I gasp before I can stop myself. “Please tell me he didn’t…he didn’t…” I can’t make myself say the horrible word. “Did he?”

  Mila raises her brows. “Oh, fuck no. He didn’t get that far. He did force a kiss on me, though.”

  “Shit,” I breathe. “How old were you?”

  “Thirteen, just about.”

  My eyes go wide. “Mila…”

  She shakes her head. “Don’t worry—it wasn’t my first kiss. But you have no idea how many times I’ve wished it was.”

  That takes me by surprise. “What?”

  She seems to collect herself. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  But even that doesn’t sit well with me. It’s almost like she feels bad for saying it, rather than for feeling it. For suffering through it.

  Whatever “it” may be.

  “Anyway, Benedict had his hand halfway up my skirt when Ilarion heard me shout. He pulled that bastard off me and accepted his ‘sparring match’ right then and there.”

  “And he beat Benedict?”

  She smiles. “Oh, yes. He beat Benedict stupid, surrounded by both Zakharov and Bellasio men. The cheering pulled the old fogies out of their meeting and our fathers watched Ilarion whoop the absolute shit out of him.” She pauses for a second and sighs. “I think it was the first time I’ve seen our father look so proud.”

  “What about Benedict’s father?”

  “Like any mob boss, he mastered the poker face, but even I could see how angry he was at watching his chosen heir get embarrassed in front of everyone who mattered. Once Ilarion let him up, the old don walked up to his son, put his foot on his chest, and spat on him. Then he left with his men. Benedict had to find another way home.”

  I shiver. “That’s awful.”

  “I know it seems brutal to you. But that’s mob life.”

  “Is it?” I ask. “Seems to me that’s just hell.”

  “Maybe you’re right.” Mila sighs. “But if this is hell… what happens when we die?”

  60

  ILARION

  The click of Benedict’s gun echoes through the room. I release the golden doorknob, sighing at how close I was to getting out of here without any bloodshed.

  Then I turn to face the mudak I’ve embarrassed too many times to count already.

  He and his stooge are both bristling. Both have guns in their hands trained in our direction.

  “A gun, Benny?” I ask. “Really? And after I agreed to your terms, no less.”

  Benedict narrows his eyes. “Trying to goad me, Ilarion?”

  “Trying to teach you, my friend. I did once before, but I guess the lesson didn’t stick. So here it is a second time: when you strip away all the excess, all the bluster and bravado, a man’s word is the only thing he has. Trust, Benedict. Trust can be worth a lot more than you realize.”

  “How long do you think you can stay on your high horse?” Benedict scoffs. “It’s going to buck you off sooner rather than later. In fact—” He checks his watch. “My bet’s on ‘sooner.’”

  I snort. “Of course you’re cocky now. You’ve got two guns on two unarmed men. But then, I suppose that’s your best chance of winning.”

  His expression turns black. “Pissing me off right now isn’t your wisest choice, Zakharov.”

  “Don’t you understand, Benedict? I can do and say whatever I want. I’m not scared of you. Never was, if you recall. And I never will be.”

  His face flushes with anger when I bring up The Incident. He may be the one holding a gun, but the past is the only weapon I need to bring him to his knees.

  “It’s going to look bad, wouldn’t you say?” I muse, meandering in his direction. “Killing me and my man in what was supposed to be a peaceful meeting? It’s not as if our respective families don’t know what happened fifteen years ago. Hell, who doesn’t know? Half the city was watching. So do it, fine—but you’ll come off looking like a coward. To no one’s surprise, of course.”

  “You’ll be dead,” he growls. “I can tell the world whatever story I want and they’ll have to believe me.”

  “Have to?” I ask. “No, I don’t think so. We both have reputations. My men know who I am. They know I would never dishonor a gentleman’s agreement. Not even for you. You, on the other hand…” I move my gaze to his goon. “Your men know damn well that you’re a coward.”

  He cringes and marches closer to me, though he pauses just out of arm’s reach. His finger is trembling on the trigger.

  Dima sidles up to my side. I know him well enough to guess that he’s planning to push me out of the way if he needs to.

  But I understand Benedict better than he does. Better than anyone does. He’s not going to attack me until he’s got the last word in. Until he feels like he’s won the argument.

  “Look at you,” he spits. “The only don I know with a moral compass. Tell me, Ilarion: where was your moral compass when you murdered your father?”

  I loft a brow. “It was aiming the gun.”

  “Ah, yes.” He nods. “That’s the party line, isn’t it? Except I know you would never kill your father. He was your pakhan. Loyalty is everything with you Zakharovs. Well, most of you, at least.”

  I tense up as he keeps talking, but I also take the opportunity to inch towards him. He’s so caught up in the melody of his own voice that he barely seems to notice.

  “But there’s something to be said for a son who usurps the seat of his father. It was yours to take and the old man was making mistakes. It must have been easy for your men to accept.”

  “Like I said, my men have faith in me.”

  Benedict nods somberly. “Do they have the same faith in your lovely sister?”

  My eyes narrow when he mentions Mila. Dima is similarly tense at my side. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t you?” he taunts. “Because as far as I understand it, you weren’t the one who killed your father. She was.”

  61

  ILARION

  Fuck him. Fuck this motherfucker to hell. If the circumstances were different, I would leave him to rot in the corner of my darkest prison.

  “I don’t know who your source is, but they’re wrong.”

  Benedict shakes his head with a haughty chuckle. “No, no, I don’t think so. I think my source knows exactly what they’re talking about. That little hellcat has a look in her eyes… She’s capable of anything. I saw that in her fifteen years ago.”

  “She was thirteen years old, you pervert,” I snarl. “She was a child.”

  “Said like a protective older brother,” he drawls. “One who’s willing to look the other way when his sister performs the ultimate act of betrayal. Tell me, would your men be as willing to forgive if they knew Mila was the one who killed their pakhan?”

  Waves of disbelief and confusion roll off Dima. He wants to ask me; he wants me to tell him it’s not true.

  But I can’t.

  “It’s a lie,” I say simply. “Mila had nothing to do with our father’s death. It was all me.”

  “Ah, big brother to the last. How lucky that sweet little flower is.”

  “She’s a flower with thorns, Benedict. I wouldn’t get too close if I were you.”

  He laughs. “Was it one of the thorns that finished off your father, then?” The gun droops; the bastard is clearly starting to enjoy himself. “Fuck, I would have loved to see it. She must have looked glorious. Was it bloody? Or did she do it clean? Poison, maybe. I could see her loving how it looked to watch the life slowly fade from his eyes.”

  “You really do love the sound of your own voice, don’t you?”

  He flashes me his teeth. “On the contrary, people love hearing my voice. I’ve been known to make women wet without so much as touching them. Your little sister certainly was when I put my fingers up her cunt.”

  Dima growls low. I don’t have to be psychic to know he’s mentally cursing me for not letting him bring his gun.

  I shake my head and give Dima a subtle signal. Then I lunge toward Benedict, ducking low and shouldering him hard in the gut.

  BANG!

  The gunshot blasts my hearing and I feel pain sear down the side of my body in one hot stroke. My brain calculates the damage fast. I know I’ve been shot, but it’s not fatal. It’s just my arm, which will freeze up in a few minutes, but not before I get maximum use out of it.

  I tackle Benedict to the floor and he lands with a loud grunt, fumbling his gun in the process. I punch him in the face, knee him in the gut, and make a grab for the gun.

  Another gunshot pierces the air, but this time, Benedict’s weapon is not the source. I don’t have time to check on Dima. I focus on disarming Benedict, who flings the damned weapon across the floor. It spins violently and disappears underneath one of the patterned sofas.

  I smash my fist across Benedict’s face. His eyes wobble, but he focuses back on me almost immediately. “Déjà vu, huh?” I ask him.

  He tries to spit up at me, but I dodge and crack his nose open.

  “Ilarion, we have incoming,” Dima warns from the door. I glance back over my shoulder. The mute thug is slumped unconscious at his feet, and the mudak’s weapon is in Dima’s hand. “The hotel staff are on their way. Police are en route.”

  I nod, slap Benedict’s face once more for good measure, and then clamber off him. I gesture for the gun in Dima’s hand and he hands it over. I cock it and point it directly at Benedict’s face. “Where is the old man?”

  “Vaffanculo!” he snarls.

  I don’t have to speak Italian to understand he isn’t being cooperative.

  As much as I want to puncture one hole after the next in his rotten gut until he tells me what I need to know, we don’t have time for that right now. The pain in my arm is getting more pronounced and I can smell the faint metallic scent of blood. Benedict is half-drenched in the stuff. I’ve lost more than I realized.

  “I could kill you right now,” I point out to Benedict.

  “Yes,” he snarls. “But then my brother would kill the old man. And what would your pretty little fiancée say about that?”

  “She would say that I did all that I could—”

  “Bullshit!” he screams. “Bullshit! She’d hate you! And my brother would see to it that she died as painfully as that old stronzo she called a father!”

  “Ilarion, we have to go if we want to avoid a whole thing.” Dima doesn’t want to end my fun, I can tell, but he’s also not ready to risk getting arrested. Too much is at stake to spend time in a cell.

  I kick Benedict in the side, making him roll into a painful, groaning ball. “I’d leave you with a parting gift,” I growl, “but it looks like we’re even. An arm for an arm. But just to be sure you’ve learned your lesson…”

  I kick him between the legs. He screams like he’s been gelded. Dramatic, even by his standards.

  Then Dima holds the door open for me and we run like hell.

  We sprint down the corridors, passing shocked guests who dart to the sides to avoid us, then through the kitchens and out the back door into the alley behind.

  “You should have killed him,” Dima sighs. “Why didn’t you?”

  I shake my hand, splattering wet blood across the asphalt beneath my feet. “Archie.”

  He shakes his head. “This is not about Archie at all, is it? It’s about the girls. Although which one of them, I haven’t decided.” He raises his eyes to meet mine. “I don’t think you have, either.”

  “Now’s not the time,” I warn him.

  He combs sweaty hair out of his eyes and sighs again. “Is it true?” he asks. “Was it Mila?”

  I avoid his gaze. “Now’s not the time for that, either.”

  62

  TAYLOR

  I’ve been holding Cee’s hand so long, I can’t feel my own anymore.

  When the door opens, I expect to see Dr. Baranov or one of the nurses, but it’s Mila. She’s carrying a bottle of lemonade that she offers to me.

  “Have some. You need to stay hydrated.”

  “You don’t need to take care of me, Mila.”

  “Well, you’re certainly not taking care of yourself,” she retorts. “And anyway, having something to do is a good distraction.” Her eyes glance at the watch on her slim wrist.

  “Shouldn’t they be back by now?”

  “It’s been a few hours,” Mila concedes. “Nothing out of the norm.” Somehow, I don’t quite believe her. A second later, her forced calm shatters and I see that she’s every bit as anxious as I am. “That being said, if they’re not back in an hour, I’m gathering the men and we’re going in.”

  “But—”

  “They never should have agreed to those stupid fucking terms! My brother might honor his agreements, but Benedict Bellasio is a piece of shit with no honor.”

  “He has Dima,” I offer, trying to say something comforting. It’s not easy to do when I need to be comforted every bit as much as she does.

  Her lip twists. “That’s the problem.”

  “Oh my god,” I blurt without thinking. “You love him.”

  Mila’s head whips up. “Do you want the damn lemonade or not?”

  “Mila.”

  “Fine.” She shrugs. “More for me.”

  “Mila,” I say again.

  She glares at me. “Dima and I have known each other for years. We train together, we eat together, we practically live together. We’re good friends.”

  “But…”

  She grits her teeth, eyes whirling like a cornered animal. I shouldn’t have put her on the spot like this. I just don’t understand why they aren’t together after this long. Unless…

  I’ve met the right man. I just can’t bring my walls down long enough to let him in. And since I can’t give myself to him fully, it would be selfish to get involved with him in the first place.

  Mila’s words. So crystal clear.

  “Does he know?”

  “No,” she says sharply. “No one does. I mean, Ilarion probably does. Nothing gets past him. But Dima? No. He just thinks we’re buddies.”

  “Good lord, Mila. I always figured you’d go for exactly what you want, no matter what.”

  “That’s because you don’t know me. Not really.”

  “I would like to, though. I’d like to understand.”

  “Trust me: you’re gonna regret saying that.”

  “Try me.”

  She shakes her head. “Not today, okay?”

  I can see the pain written across her face, and I’m thankful that at the very least, she allows me to see it, if not to do anything about it.

  “Okay,” I agree. “Another day then.”

  I turn back to look at my sister. It’s so strange to think she might not wake up. She looks like she’s having the best sleep of her life. Eyes closed, chest rising and falling, her hair fanned neatly around her face.

  Wake up, I beg her silently. Wake up and make me do the right thing. Because the longer you stay asleep, the easier it is to convince myself that it’s okay to succumb to something that’s so, so wrong…

  Mila frowns suddenly and cocks her head to the right. “Do you hear that?”

  “Hear wh—? Wait.”

  Thumping. Running footsteps. Then raised voices, tires crunching over gravel, the clatter of panicked men moving in many directions.

  Mila and I rush to the window in the far corner of the room and rip the curtains apart. But since we’re facing the gardens instead of the front entrance of the house, we can’t see anything.

  “It must be them,” Mila says, an air of panic radiating from her. “I’ll go check.”

  “I’m coming with you,” I insist.

  We head out of the medical wing together and rush towards the staircase. We’ve just reached the first floor when I notice a trail of blood dripping on the white marble.

  One of the security men zips past me, but before he can get far, I grab his arm and pull him to a stop. “What happened?” I beg. “What’s going on?”

  He doesn’t immediately answer me, but then his gaze veers to Mila. “It’s the pakhan,” he says. “He was shot.”

  63

  TAYLOR

  It’s my fault.

  That’s the first thought that pops into my head the moment I register the news. I’m cursed. I’m a bad luck charm. I should come with a warning.

  Don’t get too close to me, people! If you do, you’re likely to get shot or abducted or knocked into a never-ending coma.

  “Taylor?”

  I jerk to the side at the feel of someone’s hand on my shoulder. Mila gazes at me with those searing eyes of hers that remind me, for the first time, of her brother’s.

  I tremble under her touch. “I…I can’t… If he’s dead…”

  “We don’t know that. We don’t know anything. We don’t—Dima!”

  Relief floods her face and she takes off at a run, jumping right into Dima’s embrace. He wraps his arms around her, letting out a low grunt when their bodies collide. “Oof! You put on a few?”

  “Fucker,” she growls, hitting him on the back but clinging to him all the while.

  “I’m okay,” he says. “Seriously, it’s all good.”

  “And…Ilarion?” I call over, my voice trembling. “H-he was shot?”

  “Come on,” Dima says. “I’m sure he’ll want to see you.”

  He steers Mila around and leads us to the den. That has to be a good sign, right? If it were serious, then he’d have been brought up to the medical wing. Unless, of course, it’s so serious that he couldn’t be moved.