“Seems that way.” I lean back and take a sip of my wine. “Been a long time. How’s life, Belov?”

“It was quite fine, actually. Until some motherfucker decided to kidnap my niece.” He steps out of the darkness and leans his backside on the banister, crossing his arms over his chest. The glow of the moon reflects off the gun he’s holding.

“So, the pakhan ordered you to take care of that problem for him, did he?”

“I would have, even if he hadn’t,” he snaps. “What the fuck, Rafael? We’ve had dealings for years. Was it some sort of payback? And if so, for what?”

“It wasn’t.”

“Then what? Did someone hire you to do this? At what price? Shit. If you’d called Roman when you got the contract, he would have paid you double just to send her back right away.”

“I was told that not all things have a price tag. I’m now convinced that’s true.” I nod toward the gun in his hand. “Feel free to do what you came here for.”

“What, you just gonna sit there and let me kill you?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Why?”

“Because the alternative outcome of this meeting is me killing you, Belov. And, unfortunately, I can’t do that.”

My gaze glides along the route Vasilisa and I traveled when we spent the day on my yacht, feeling the Russian’s eyes on me the entire time. He probably thinks I’m bluffing, expects me to pull out my weapon at any second. If it was anyone else in his place, Petrov’s avenger would already be dead. But Vasilisa adores her uncle. And I could never kill anyone she loves.

“Are you going to spend the whole night just staring at me?” I ask.

Belov laughs. “You know, I could have sworn you were one of the sane ones.”

“Acquired madness is one of the worst kinds, I’m afraid. When you catch it, there’s no cure.” I meet his gaze and throw back what’s left of my wine. “Take good care of her.”

He lifts his gun, aiming at my chest. “I will.”

A gunshot explodes into the night.

The bullet slices through my flesh; shockwaves radiate throughout my body. Pain shreds my insides, setting every nerve ending on fire. If someone buried a superheated rod through my breastbone, twisting it in the process, I imagine this is how it would feel.

Notes of a familiar song suddenly sound somewhere near. I almost laugh when I recognize “Gangsta’s Paradise.” The music gets louder when Belov reaches inside his pocket and pulls out his phone, pressing it to his ear. Unperturbed by the interruption, he lifts the gun, aiming at my head.

I can see Belov’s lips move as he speaks with whoever is calling him, but all sound gets muted now, only low mumbling remains. It’s getting harder to draw a breath. The light of the boats are a lot more blurry. I close my eyes and let the darkness take me. But on the cusp, a fleeting thought invades my mind.

I should have stuffed one of my shirts into her backpack.

Chapter 20

“Do not touch me,” I choke out and pull my hand from my father’s hold.

He’s been hovering over me for the entire ten-hour flight. If there were parachutes on board, I would have forced one on him and kicked him out of the damn plane.

“Vasya, baby . . . He’s going to pull through.” He tries to take my hand again but I slap it away.

“You sent Uncle Sergei to kill the man I love,” I snap, barely keeping the tears from spilling over. “In your sick, maniacal need to keep me from harm, you inflicted the worst possible pain on me. I hate you. God, I hate you so much.”

“Please, Vasya . . .”

“Roman,” my mom says from the seat next to me. “Go sit in the back.”

“But . . .”

“Now, kotik,” she growls and wraps her arm around me. “What did Rafael’s brother say?”

“He’s still in surgery. His second one. Surgeons had to go back in to stop the internal bleeding. That’s not even the worst of it.” Gulping for breath, I try to get the next words out. “He flatlined on arrival, and they had to resuscitate him.” I press the heels of my palms over my eyes.

It’s been hours since I’ve been able to draw a full breath. Quick, shallow intakes of air are all I can manage to get past the knot that’s formed in my throat. The survival rate for a gunshot wound to the chest is low, especially from a high-powered weapon and at close range. And knowing my uncle, he probably used one of his big-ass guns.

Mom squeezes my hand. “He’s going to be fine, Vasilisa. I promise you. He’s going to be fine.”

The plane tilts. My ears are ringing but not because we’re landing. There’s a scream that’s been building inside me, pushing on my lungs and mind, ready to burst free. I want to let it out, but I’m afraid if I do, I won’t be able to stop.

There is a slight bump when the wheels hit the ground. I’m out of my seat and running for the door even before we stop moving. It took hours to find a jet that could fly us to Sicily on short notice, and I’m not losing another minute to get to my man.

The flight attendant sprints before me, blocking my way to the door. Protests, likely, leave her mouth, but they sound like nothing more than mumbling to me.

“Move!” I snarl and try to get past her, but two strong arms wrap around me from behind.

“Vasilisa . . .” My father’s voice next to my ear. “Please.”

“Let me go.” I try to wriggle free. “Don’t ever fucking touch me! I can’t even stand the sight of you!”

He keeps speaking, words that are meant to soothe me, but nothing penetrates my brain. All my focus is on the aircraft door a few feet away. The minutes it takes for the plane to taxi over to the tarmac feel like years of my life. When the door finally opens, I rush through it and down the steps.

Uncle Sergei is standing by a parked car, pulled up to the edge of the runway. He’s still dressed in his regular tactical outfit, his usual attire when he’s hunting someone down for Bratva. I can’t bear to look at him, either.

“Take me to him,” I say as I pass by my uncle, heading toward the passenger-side door.

“Let’s wait for—”

“Take me to him!” I roar. “Now!”

Uncle Sergei throws a look over his shoulder, toward the plane where my mom and dad are just descending the stairs. I don’t really expect him to move from his spot since his loyalty is only to the pakhan, but he nods and gets behind the wheel.

The car surges forward. I clasp my hands in my lap, frantically twisting the plain silver ring around my finger.

* * *

“I apologize.” The nurse at the information desk shakes her head. “But as I’ve already told you, I can’t disclose patient information to anyone other than immediate family members.”

“Please,” I beg, squeezing the white counter before me. “Just tell me if he’s alive.”