Page 61 of Rafi

And then it hits me: she’s buying us time. Not just for herself, but for all of us. She’s not just standing here to survive. She’s martyring herself, and in doing so, she’s giving us the preciousmoments we need to think, to come up with a plan. I’m watching her sacrifice herself for us, for a chance that we might be able to escape this hell.

I watch as she finally takes a step back, her gaze never leaving Igor’s, as if to say she’s done with the game. It’s not like she’s ready to give up, not by any means. But in that moment, she’s said everything she needs to say to him without uttering another word. She’s got him wrapped around her finger. And she’s going to use that to our advantage.

“Your father is a coward,” he tells her. His eyes flicker with annoyance, his frustration evident now, but it’snotaimed at her. It’s aimed at the world shifting beneath his feet. Tayana’s power doesn’t come from violence or threats. It comes from something much more dangerous: the ability to control the situation. And that’s what she’s doing right now.

I glance at Scar, who’s been watching this unfold with a clenched jaw, his hands twitching toward his non-existent weapons as if every second in this standoff is a strain on his resolve. The guards removed our weapons; if we’re to have any chance, we’ll have to overpower them without getting ourselves killed.

But the second Igor slips, the second he lets his guard down, we’ll take it. Every last one of us.

The tension in the air is suffocating, and for the briefest moment, I think I see Igor falter—just a flicker of doubt in his eyes. I realize, with an unsettling clarity, that the battle might have already been won—not by fists, not by bullets, but by the one who knows how to manipulate the mind. The one who’s playing the long game.

And that person is Tayana.

35

BRANDO

The night is eerily quiet, the kind of silence that feels alive, buzzing with the promise of violence. I sit behind the wheel of the armored vehicle, my fingers gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles are white. The rhythmic ticking of the dashboard clock is the only sound, each second dragging with unbearable weight. Kanyan sits in the passenger seat, leaning forward, his leg bouncing like he’s about to spring from his seat and charge the compound himself. The both of us have never been good at waiting, and I’d bet that’s why Scar put us strategically at this location instead of in the tunnel. For discipline’s sake.

My comms unit crackles, and I tap it immediately, my voice terse. “Report.”

Static fills the line for a moment before a panicked voice breaks through. “There’s been an explosion in the crypt.”

My heart skips a beat, the words slamming into me like a physical blow. I glance at Kanyan, whose restless leg suddenly stops, his entire body going still as stone. “Say that again,” I demand, though the dread in my gut tells me I heard right the first time.

“The crypt—sealed off. The tunnel’s collapsed. We—we can’t reach them.”

My chest tightens, and the weight of the air inside the vehicle feels suffocating. I grip the steering wheel so hard it creaks in my hand. “Do you have eyes on the team? Do you see them?” My voice is calm, but it’s the kind of calm that feels like it’s about to unleash a storm.

“Negative,” the guard stammers. “Nothing. No movement. They—they could still be?—”

“Dead,” Kanyan growls, his voice a rumble of fury and despair. He slams his fist into the dashboard with a crack that makes me flinch. “You’re saying they’re fucking buried?”

The guard doesn’t answer immediately. He can’t. My mind is racing, calculating the possibilities, weighing the risks. But the image of my brothers and the others trapped—or worse—gnaws at my resolve like acid.

Kanyan doesn’t wait for a response. He’s already ripping off his seatbelt, his face twisted with rage. “We need to go in now. Fuck the plan. If they’re down there?—”

“Sit your ass down,” I snap, my voice a whipcrack in the confined space.

Kanyan freezes, his glare searing. “They’re our brothers, Brando. They could be dying down there while we sit here doing nothing.”

“And if we go charging in now, we’re all dead.” My voice is steel, but there’s a tremor beneath it—a crack in my armor. I have to believe that they’re alive. I have to. No other scenario works in my mind. “We stick to the plan. We wait. We’re five minutes out.”

“They don’t have time for us to wait!” Kanyan’s roar fills the cabin, and for a moment, I think he might actually throw a punch. “You think I give a shit about the plan? About timing? They need us, Brando.”

This is what Kanyan De Scarzi losing control looks like. I’ve seen him as a monster. I’ve seen him as a beast. A killing machine. I’ve seen him every which way under the sun. But I’ve never seen him human. He’s extraordinary when emotion overtakes him, and I know this is as foreign a concept to him as it is to me seeing him this way.

My jaw clenches, my nails digging into the steering wheel. I want to agree with Kanyan, want to slam my foot on the gas and tear through the compound gates, but the cold logic in my mind keeps me anchored. “If we go in early, they’ll see us coming. We’ll lose the element of surprise, and then no one gets out alive. Is that what you want?”

“The narrative has changed, Brando,” he argues with me.

Kanyan’s breathing is heavy, his chest rising and falling as he stares me down, the rage in his eyes battling with the anguish just beneath it. Finally, he slumps back into his seat, running a trembling hand through his hair. “This is bullshit,” he mutters, but the fight drains out of his voice. “If they’re dead because of this…”

“They’re not dead,” I cut him off, though the words feel hollow even to me. I glance at the clock again, my stomach twisting as the seconds tick closer to the agreed time.Five minutes, I tell myself.Just five more minutes.

The radio crackles again, but this time it’s only static. The silence that follows is deafening. My eyes flick to the rearview mirror, then to the faint lights of the compound in the distance. I imagine the tunnel—dark, suffocating, crumbling around my friends and family. The image is unbearable, but I force it down, locking it away behind the iron wall of my will.

Beside me, Kanyan is muttering under his breath, his fists clenching and unclenching. I know he’s not praying—Kanyan doesn’t pray—but there’s desperation in the movement, a mantrying to hold himself together while everything threatens to fall apart.

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