Page 164 of Ivory Oath

“You controlled every element of my life,” I say softly. “You sold me to ruthless men for alliances that benefited you. You killed the boy I loved because he was born without money.”

“I wanted you to be protected,” he gasps.

“You wanted to protect yourself. It was never about me. I was just a way to get what you wanted: security.” I frown, taking in the pathetic scene in front of me. “You are terrified of the people around you and you were willing to sacrifice me to save yourself. Why should I do anything different?”

“Because I’m your father,” he says again, as if it means anything. “We are blood, Viviana.”

I try to feel something. Part of me wants this moment to hurt just so I know I’m not half the monster my father was.

But I feel nothing as I turn to Mikhail. “He stopped being my father a long time ago. Kill him.”

Horror flickers across Agostino Giordano’s face for an instant before the bullet tears through his skull.

67

MIKHAIL

Agostino hasn’t even hit the ground when I grab Viviana.

“Are you okay?”

She pulls her eyes away from her father’s body and nods. “I’m okay.”

I run my hands across her shoulders and down her arms. I trace the shadows under her eyes and the quiver in her chin. She’s pale and shaking, but she’s okay. Not a scratch on her.

I turn to lay eyes on Dante.

They were both out of my sight for too long. I should have gotten them away from the fight, but there wasn’t time. I wouldn’t have even had time to save Dante, if it hadn’t been for?—

I cut the thought off at the root. I need to compartmentalize. One thing at a time.

Anatoly is standing on the other side of the smoking car with Dante latched onto his side. They’re looming over Trofim, who is still unconscious on the ground.

“Is Dante hurt?” I ask.

Dante shakes his head at the same time Anatoly answers, “No. He’s a little hero. Saved himself over there.”

Anatoly sounds chipper for Dante’s sake, but I know he’s compartmentalizing, too. It’s the way we were trained.

I scan the garage, but it’s empty. There’s no one else standing. No one else to check in on.

They’re okay.

Everyone else is okay.

So I drop to my knees next to the only person who isn’t.

Raoul hasn’t moved since he dropped. He’s soaked in an angry red puddle of his own blood. When I roll him onto his back, there’s no resistance. No groaning.

Nothing.

I know it’s not good, but I roll him over anyway. I lift his shirt and examine the wound the way I have a hundred times before in a hundred different shootouts. But this time, my hands are shaking as I apply pressure to the gaping hole over his heart.

Fluid spurts out of the wound when I first press on it, but it quickly slows.

He has no blood pressure. His veins are stagnant and his heart has stopped and my brother-in-arms is dead on the ground in front of me. I know that, but I check for a pulse anyway.

Nothing.

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