“And what’s that?” she snaps.

  I meet her icy gaze. “Trapped.”

  Her eyes flare like twin torches. The only reason she’s this mad is because I’m right about her. But instead of admitting as much, she flips me off and starts stalking away again.

  I watch her go. I can hardly blame her—I would’ve done the same thing.

  I stay where I am until she rounds a corner and disappears from sight. Then, when the night is silent and still again, I rev my engine and make a U-turn.

  I speed away from this entire neighborhood and the tormented people who call it home.

  If they’re lucky, I’ll never be back.

  6

  TAYLOR

  It hurts more than it should to hear his engine fade into silence.

  It’s ridiculous that I should feel so judged by a stranger. Because he is a stranger. He may have a cute yet annoying nickname for me. He may have finished inside me. He may know more about my feelings than my own family does at the moment.

  But he’s still a stranger.

  And his opinions don’t matter.

  I repeat that mantra to myself right up until I reach the house. It used to be that I would see the old bricks and the yellow curtains at the window and feel comforted.

  But this is my childhood home. And I’m no longer a child.

  It doesn’t help that, despite the late hour, the curtains are still thrown open. Which means Dad is waiting up for me, ready to unleash the rant of a lifetime the moment I walk through the doorstep.

  Except that it’s eerily silent when I walk in. I pass the threshold and peer into the living room.

  Dad is there, just like I thought he’d be. Sitting in his recliner, shoes still on his feet. But his chin is slumped to his chest and his eyes are closed. There’s a cold mug of tea at his side and a book flopped open in his lap.

  He must’ve been waiting all night for me to come home.

  I close the curtains and lean against the wall, just gazing over at him for a moment. It’s so much harder to be mad at him like this. When he’s asleep, it’s impossible to avoid the fact that he’s gone so deathly gray. His mouth is a mess of worry lines and his crows’ feet stand out like cracks between tectonic plates. Those age spots on his hands—were those there before? I can’t remember.

  I hate what I said to him tonight. I hate how he reacted. But at the end of the day, I still love him., just like I know he loves me.

  That’s what they don’t tell you about cancer: the disease spreads to everyone around the one who’s sick. It depletes them of their patience and hope and reduces them to the worst versions of themselves.

  My worst version came head to head with Dad’s worst tonight.

  And I’m starting to realize that if I stay here…it’ll keep happening again and again. We’ll be caught in a Groundhog Day version of what happened tonight. More cruel words. More vicious slaps.

  Which is why I came to the conclusion that’s been waiting for me all night. The obvious choice that I refused to make until I stepped out of that stranger’s car and into the cold and rainy night.

  I have to leave.

  I felt brave about that choice at first. It’s the right thing to do, I know that. I knew it would be hard.

  But now that I’m here, actually doing it, it’s a trillion times harder than I ever could’ve imagined. Tears stud my eyes as I scoop up a yellow blanket from the basket at Dad’s side and drape it over his legs.

  Guilt pulls at my heart as I turn my back on him and sneak upstairs. It takes me only a few short minutes to get my stuff together. When I’m packed, I sling my duffel bag over my shoulder and creep back down the corridor towards the staircase.

  I’m almost at Celine’s door when it opens. She glances out into the hallway and catches sight of me immediately.

  “Tay?”

  I sigh and set the bag down on the floor. I want to hem and haw, but there’s no beating around the bush now. “I’m leaving, Celine,” I say. “I can’t stay anymore.”

  She rushes over to me, soft blonde hair spilling from her messy bun. “Oh, Tay, it was just a fight! A bad one, yes. He never should’ve hit you. But you were both emotional and tired. And after what the doctor said yesterday… I’m—I’m not trying to justify what he did. But…well…you know that Dad loves you—”

  “I know that,” I cut in. “I do. But he’s suffocating me, Cee. I feel like I can’t breathe in this house anymore.”

  “He just wants us to be safe.”

  “I’d rather be unsafe and happy than safe and sad.”

  Celine winces. “I just think you should—”

  “Don’t do that,” I interrupt again. “We can’t all be selfless martyrs like you.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, though, I grimace. I’m just walking around spreading happiness wherever I go tonight, it seems. “I’m sorry, Cee. I’m just not like you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that you have this big heart. You’re kind and patient and giving. But me… I don’t think I can do it anymore. It’s too much—living here, taking care of Mom, dealing with Dad and his overprotectiveness. He’s getting worse in his own way, just like she is. And I… I can’t do it anymore.”

  “So you’re just gonna skulk out into the night with your things?”

  “I wasn’t skulking. I was gonna leave a note.”

  “How considerate,” she mutters with uncharacteristic sarcasm. She immediately flushes and backtracks. “Sorry. That was unfair.”

  “No, it wasn’t. I’d understand if you hate me for this.”

  She shakes her head. “You have the right to do what’s best for yourself. It’s one of the things I’ve always admired about you: you’re not afraid to go after what you want, even if it’s hard. Maybe even especially when it’s hard.”

  There’s not an inkling of resentment in her tone when she says that, and it makes me love her even more. It would be so easy to be petty. Celine has more than enough ammunition, given what lies in our past, but she doesn’t use it. She never does.

  I throw my arms around her and hug her as tight as I can. “I’ll be back as often as I can. I don’t want you to feel like I’m abandoning you. I don’t expect you to look after Mom or deal with Dad alone.”

  “Duh. I know that.”

  She’s giving me the benefit of the doubt, because of course she is. She always does. The only exception was years ago, when…

  No. I stop the thought in its tracks. We agreed to put that behind us and we did.

  Mostly.

  She gives me another hug and I pick up my duffel bag. She doesn’t ask me where I’m going. She doesn’t pepper me with questions the way that Dad would have.

  But that’s because Celine has always known what Dad refuses to accept: that I can take care of myself.

  7

  ILARION

  There’s a gentle breeze drifting through the garden. It’s quiet. Tranquil. Soothing. Still. It’d be easy for a man to relax in a place like this. After all, no one anticipates a murder when the stars are shining and the lilac is fragrant.

  The man who’s about to die certainly doesn’t.

  I turn to him. “Armond, you know Bruno Domi well, don’t you?”

  Armond Ivanov, one of my vors, frowns. He looks mystified by the question. “Bruno? Sure, I know Bruno.”

  “Known him a long time?”

  “Couple of years,” Armond says with a shrug. “Decent guy.”

  Next to him, Slava, one of the Bratva’s newer recruits, is squirming as though he’s got a nail up his ass. He keeps looking over at Armond, probably waiting for him to wise up.

  He might; he might not. It doesn’t matter either way.

  It won’t save him in the end.

  Armond is still blathering on. “He runs some fenced electronics. Sells ‘em cheap. I got a grade-A stereo system at home for a fraction of the price ‘cause of him.”

  “So you know that Bruno Domi is a Bellasio man?” I say. The shift in my tone is subtle, but it’s enough for Armond to finally notice the noose tightening around his throat.

  His eyes widen when he realizes where I’m going with this. “I… Listen, boss, Bruno and I talk cheap electronics. Nothin’ else. He’s selling and I’m buying. That’s as far as our relationship extends. And as far as I know, he’s not high in the ranks.”

  “So the answer is yes. You do know what he is.”

  He gulps, but he stands his ground and looks me in the eye. “I got nothin’ to hide, boss. I’m loyal to you. Bruno may be a Bellasio, but I’m Zakharov through and through.”

  He’s convincing. But then again, so was the other bastard who swore his loyalty to me and then stabbed the Bratva in the back. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…well, that’s not an option. For anyone.

  “It’s funny,” I muse. “Someone else said the same thing to me not too long ago.”

  Slava and Armond exchange a glance. “We heard about that, boss,” Armond stammers. “Through the grapevine. Are…are you sure?”

  “No, I just blindly rampage into things without making sure.” The back of my teeth clench as I take a deep breath. It sounds more like a growl than a sigh. “Are you accusing me of making this up, Armond? Of not doing due diligence?”

  “That’s not what I was trying to—”

  “Then choose your words more carefully.” I brandish the knife that I’ve had concealed in my waistband all this time. “Where were you last Friday night?”

  Armond blanches. “I was at a—a—a—”

  “Spit it out,” I snarl.

  “A strip club!” he cries out. “The Lucky Slipper on 58th. I swear to God I was, Ilarion, I swear it.”

  I nod. That confirms my intel. Then I steer my gaze towards Slava. “And you?”

  “I…I would never betray you, boss—”

  “Answer the question, Slava.”

  He flushes scarlet. “I was…was at my mother’s.”

  “That was convincing,” I drawl sarcastically. “Are you sure you were trained under me?”

  “Boss,” Slava croaks, his color darkening from scarlet to off-purple. “Pakhan, listen—”

  “No,” I spit, “you listen.” I stride right up to him, dwarfing Slava in my shadow. “Tell me where you were right now, or I’m going to carve the name ‘Bellasio’ into your forehead so that everyone who sees your head on a spike knows what you did to deserve it.”

  Slava shakes his head. “I’m serious! I was at my mom’s place. She insists I have dinner with her twice a week.”

  “Should we call her and confirm?”

  Slava’s eyes bug out. Even Armond is looking disgusted at his cowardice. “Boss, my mom ain’t got no clue what I do. She doesn’t even like toy guns.”

  I grab him by the collar of his shirt and drag him towards me, placing the knife right at his Adam’s apple.

  “How about knives?” I muse. “Does she like knives?”

  He swallows, and his throat bobs up and down against the blade, nicking it enough to draw a single bead of blood. He cringes, but he doesn’t swallow again.

  Repulsed, I shove him away from me and flick the blade between my fingers.

  “I’m going to clean up my house if it’s the last thing I do,” I intone. “Armond, get out of the way.”

  “Boss…?” Slava gasps, looking around wildly.

  I remember thinking the kid had potential. He still might.

  But I can’t take that chance.

  My fist hits the side of his face before he even realizes what’s happening. I don’t know if it’s the shock or the blow itself that sends him toppling backward. Maybe both. What I do know is how fucking satisfying it is to watch him eat grass and cough up blood.

  I’ve been chasing ghosts for a week.

  It feels good to hit something.

  Armond stands rooted to the side, looking like he wishes he was anywhere else. I’m not about to give him a pass, though. Maybe I’ll spare their lives tonight; I haven’t fully decided yet. But both of these motherfucking mudaks need to understand the consequences of disloyalty.

  I’m closing in on Slava again when I hear shuffling on the stone path behind us.

  “For God’s sake!” an unwelcome voice calls impatiently. “What’s going on here?”

  I glance over my shoulder to see Mila standing there in her usual tomboyish clothes, her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. Dima is standing right behind her, surveying the scene with wary eyes.

  She walks over to me and braces her hands on her hips. “When are you gonna be done with this?”

  “When Slava stops breathing,” I answer grimly.

  “For God’s sake, Ilarion,” Mila hisses, “the kid’s not a mole.” She glances over at Slava, who’s still spitting out blood and grass. “He’s got nothing to do with the ugly business from the suburbs.”

  “You seem awfully confident, oh sister of mine. Know something you’re not telling me?”

  “I conducted background checks on all the men with access,” Dima interrupts, stepping in for my sibling. “Both Armond and Slava came out clean.”

  “I told ya, boss,” Slava splutters through broken teeth. “I would never betray you.”

  Where have I seen that song and dance before? It’s still too fresh. Too familiar. But with a grimace, I turn away and wipe my knuckles on my pants.

  Fine. These bastards will live—for now.

  “Get on your feet,” I tell Slava without looking at him.

  He’s shaking when he manages to straighten up. I’ve broken his nose and cracked two of his front teeth, and I don’t feel the least bit sorry about it.

  “Tell the rest of them that if they even think about double crossing me, I will end them. Am I understood?”

  Slava nods over and over. The way he sniffles, with tears in the corners of his eyes, only reminds me of just how young and new to this world—this fucked-up hellscape—he really is. I tell myself we need the manpower. My not killing him has nothing to do with the sudden sting of pity in my gut.

  “Get out of here,” I sigh. “Both of you.”

  They don’t wait around to be told twice.

  “Well, that was smooth,” Mila grumbles the moment both men disappear around the corner.

  “It was necessary.” I tuck the blade back in its sheath.

  “Was it?” she asks. “What are you trying to do, exactly? Alienate the rest of your men by accusing them of treachery one by one? Not all of them will do what—”

  “Don’t say his name in my presence,” I growl. “Not today.”

  Mila stops short and sighs. Then she glances at Dima as though he has the power to talk some sense into me. But I don’t need sense; I need results. I need fucking answers. My sister always feels like she needs to “manage” me. It’s what makes her a fantastic second-in-command—and also a fantastic pain in my ass.

  Thank fuck for Dima. He has a habit of balancing us both out by being the honorary third sibling we never knew we needed.

  “Listen, Ilarion,” Dima begins in that old-man voice he uses whenever he’s trying to inject reason into a conversation between my sister and me. “This whole business with—” he catches himself and rephrases, “with ‘the rat’, it caught us all off-guard. But you may be taking it too far.”

  “‘May’?” Mila interjects.

  Dima shoots her a warning look. “All I’m saying is that you might be overreacting.”

  “You almost killed a loyal man just now! Two of them!” Mila cries out. She’s never had very much diplomacy. “You’re seeing traitors wherever you look, Ilarion. It’s not healthy.”

  “You’re not exactly the poster girl for mental health.”

  She takes half a threatening step towards me before Dima deftly inserts himself in the middle of us.

  “What happened yesterday, by the way?” he asks.

  For one insane moment, I think he’s talking about the little hellcat that I nearly ran over. My tigrionok. But he can’t know that; I haven’t breathed a word of our encounter to anyone.

  Mostly because I’m still trying to forget it.

  “Is he dead?” Mila asks.

  Of course—they’re talking about the rat. As far as they’re concerned, he’s the only reason I’d be in Evanston in the first place. “No. Luckily for him, he’s not dead.”

  Mila and Dima exchange a meaningful glance. “That’s…unlike you,” he says. “What changed?”

  “Inspiration struck,” I reply vaguely. “I’m not going to kill him so long as I can use him.”

  “‘Use him’?” Mila exclaims. “He betrayed you! He betrayed all of us! We have no use for him.”

  “That’s what I thought, too. But then I realized that I haven’t played my last card yet.” I take out my phone and scroll to the picture at the bottom of my gallery, then present it to them. “This is my last card.”

  Dima’s eyes go wide. Mila’s narrow.

  “This?” she breathes. “It… Shit, Ilarion, it seems like a long shot.”

  But Dima shakes his head. “Actually… I think this will work.”

  “If she falls for your bullshit,” Mila scoffs.

  Dima and I lock eyes. Then we both start to chuckle.

  Mila rolls her eyes and turns her back on the both of us. “Fuck you both. Not every woman is so easily won over.”

  Dima glances at me and shrugs. “I wouldn’t be so sure, Mila. You’re his sister; you’re immune to his powers. But I’ve seen Ilarion in action. No woman can resist the smolder.”

  “Oh, I know,” I say with an arrogant smirk. “I’m counting on it.”

  TAYLOR

  FOUR WEEKS LATER

  “Sorry I’m late!” I lean over so I can hug Celine. It feels so good to hold my sister again. Has it really only been four weeks? It feels like a lifetime has passed. I forgot her smell, the shape of her face, the freckles on the back of her neck.

  “It’s okay. I already ordered drinks for us. I got you an iced tea.”