“Wrong?” I echo. I frown. I was so sure that that was the right analysis of the situation. Oleg swore his allegiance to Maxim. Maxim wants the Vorobev Bratva. Therefore, Oleg killed my father so Maxim could take it from me.
“Wrong,” Oleg repeats with finality. “I was going to strangle the old fucker in his bed. But someone beat me to it.”
“You expect us to believe that?” Bogdan scoffs.
“It’s the truth,” says Oleg. “Why would I lie now?”
“Many reasons,” I say, getting to my feet. “None of which I care to concern myself with.”
I’ve had enough. I don’t want to hear anymore bullshit from this traitor’s mouth. I press the blade to his carotid, but I pause before I deliver the killing blow.
He cringes away from me, but he doesn’t shy away from death.
“Any last words?” I drawl.
Oleg looks up at me, bearing his hatred in his eyes so that I can see it purely for the first time. “I wish I had been able to do it myself.”
“You’re still sticking with that story?” I ask with disgust. “So be it.”
He closes his eyes, ready for me to slice him open and be done with it.
But I have a better idea. “Hold him still,” I order Nikolai and Vlad. Flipping the knife around so the point is digging into his neck, I apply pressure. It splits the layers of his skin slowly. It hurts the whole fucking time. He screams and writhes in my men’s arms.
When I’ve hit my mark, I withdraw the blade as slowly as I drove it in. With my hand on his shoulder, I bend down so that he can see my face.
“You’ll die slowly,” I inform him. “It’ll take an hour. Maybe two. It will be agonizing. You backed a lame horse, Oleg. Maxim will never lead the Vorobev Bratva.”
Then I release him and he falls to the ground face first, flopping like a fish.
I turn to Bogdan. “Maxim Vorobev is no longer kin to me.”
“Nor me,” Bogdan says, raising his eyes to mine.
I nod. “Then there’s nothing left to do but prepare. He wanted a war. Now, he’s got one.”
Camila
London—Six Years Later
I’m staring at the ceiling, trying to avoid looking at the off-white silk dress that I’d laid over on my dressing table chair the night before. It doesn’t feel like it belongs to me.
But then, my life doesn’t really feel like it belongs to me.
Maybe the dress will change that.
A bubble of laughter bursts through my lips. I close my eyes and try to breathe through the nerves. Jo March would never do what I’m about to do, I think.
The thought makes me laugh harder for some reason. And then the ridiculousness of me laughing like a maniac, all alone on my wedding day, makes me laugh even harder. I keep laughing and laughing—until, suddenly, tears prick at the corners of my eyes. I’m honestly not sure where those came from.
I wipe them away hastily when my phone starts to ring. It tap-dances its way to the edge of the bureau and tips over. I lunge and barely manage to snag it from the air.
“Hello? Bree?”
“You sound out of breath,” she remarks. “It’s not time yet, is it?”
“No,” I say, glancing at the clock on the wall. “Not quite yet.”
I hear her sigh with relief. I can also hear the sound of a child’s giggle from somewhere in the background of Bree’s life. It’s so cute, so wholesome.
When I think of the sounds that have punctuated the background of my life, all I can hear is silence and regret.
“Where are the kids?” I ask, my voice choking around the last word.
“Playing in the garden. Would you like to speak to—”
“No!” I blurt. “No, I, um… I’ll speak to them afterwards.”
“Are you sure?” Bree asks. “She’s right here.”
“Just tell me how she’s doing.”
“The same. Happy, healthy. And missing you, of course.”
I bite my lip and sit up, careful not to disturb the armada of pins keeping my hair in place.
“Does she?” I whisper. “Does she really miss me?”
“You know she does, Cami.”
A tear slips down my cheek, but I keep my voice steady when I speak. “It’s been two years,” I say. “Two years since I’ve seen her. Two years since I’ve seen you.”
“Cami…” Bree warns, her tone changing.
It’s the voice she uses when she knows I need a mother. Our real mother is probably sitting on the porch swing of the house we grew up in right now. Dad’s probably gardening, happy as a clam to be digging away in his little plot of soil.
“Cami, listen to me. You made a choice. And it was a good one.”
“I know…”
“She needs stability and safety.”
I nod.
“You gave her that.”
“No,” I correct. “Actually, you did.”
“Because you trusted me with her.”
I smile sadly. “Who else would I have trusted?”
“No one. You have excellent taste in sisters.”
I can’t help a snotty laugh. “All the other ones were taken,” I tease back.
“Anyway, how are you feeling?” she presses. I exhale noisily. Bree laughs. “That good, huh?”
“He’s a good man, Bree,” I say. “He’s good to me. Maybe not always the most attentive, but still—”
I can practically hear her frown. “What do you mean?” I don’t know why I let that slip. Brianna is sharp—she’d never miss a subtle tell like that.
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Nothing at all. It’s just, he’s a busy man.”
“Too busy for you?”
“Bree,” I say, rapidly backpedaling for damage control, “I’m just a little nervous, okay? I didn’t mean that. He’s been better to me than I deserve.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means I… I didn’t tell him,” I finally admit. I cringe as soon as the words pass my lips. I’m a coward. A weak, pathetic coward.
“Oh.”
“Oh?” I say. “That’s it?”
“Cami, there’s a reason you were told to keep Jo a secret,” she says. “Of course you’d be nervous to tell anyone about her.”
“We’re not talking about just anyone, Bree,” I remind her. “This is Alex. In less than four hours, he’s going to be my husband.”
“And once he’s your husband, you can tell him.”
“It’s going to feel like a betrayal. He’s going to hate me for keeping a secret this big from him.”
“He knows you’re in the Witness Protection Program. That was a pretty big secret you trusted him with.”
“It’s not the same thing, Bree.”
“Cami, it comes down to one thing: do you think Alex is a good man?”
I shouldn’t hesitate. It’s way too late for that.
But I do.
“… Cami?”
“Of course I think he’s a good man,” I say. “It’s just, I’ve only known him for a year and a half. Is that long enough to know anyone? Much less someone you’re planning to commit to for the rest of your life?”
“You’ve been overthinking again.”
“Always.”
“Then let me ask you another question: do you believe he loves you?”
I think about the last eighteen months with Alex. How aggressively he wooed me. How lavishly he showered me with one expensive present after the next. He was generous and intent and charming.
But were any of those things love?