Page 95 of Ruthless

A sudden shudder ran through Luka's body. His eyes focused on Prometheus's retreating back, his face transforming into something barely human. Before I could react, he took three rapid steps forward, hand already reaching inside his jacket.

"Luka, no!" I lunged for him, grabbinghis arm.

A figure appeared between us and Prometheus. Rhadamanthys materialized as if conjured by the promise of violence, his body blocking Luka's path. His posture seemed casual, but I noticed how he angled himself perfectly to obstruct any clear shot.

"Consider your next move carefully, Luka," Rhadamanthys said. His dark eyes flicked to Ana's retreating figure, then back to Luka. "The dead demand respect, even from men like us."

Luka trembled, rage radiating from him in waves. "She's my sister," he snarled, voice barely recognizable. "He took her. He fucking took her."

"I see it now." Something flashed across Rhadamanthys' face. Recognition. Understanding. It vanished quickly, replaced by deadly seriousness. "Blood calls to blood. But remember, it is not your place to be his executioner."

He leaned closer, all traces of his usual theatrical flair gone. "The marriage itself, while distasteful, violates no codes. The Tribunal requires evidence of greater transgressions. Draw that weapon now, and the consequences will extend far beyond your own death. You would forfeit any chance at justice. The Tribunal will investigate these... unusual circumstances. But we require proof, not blood spilled in blind rage."

Luka's muscles coiled tighter, his jaw working as he fought for control. For one terrifying moment, I thought he might attack Rhadamanthys. Then something in him broke. His shoulders slumped fractionally.

"A wise choice." Rhadamanthys stepped back, straightening. "Patience yields greater rewards than impulse, no? The sister you mourned breathes. Focus on that truth. Justice and vengeance are not the same path. Remember this."

He moved away, his usual swagger tempered by the gravity of what had transpired, leaving us standing there, shaken.

Luka's eyes focused on mine, something terrible and cold settling into them. "We're going to that dinner," he said, voice deadly quiet. "And then I'm going to kill him. I'm going to tear him apart with my bare hands."

Through my earpiece, Lo's voice crackled: "What the fuck just happened? Did Rhadamanthys just... help you?"

I looked across the cemetery to see the Judge leaning against a marble angel, eyes fixed on us.

"We'll get her back," I promised Luka, my hand finding his. "Whatever it takes."

His fingers curled around mine. "She doesn't even know who I am. What he took from her. From us."

The devastation in his voice broke my heart. All those years of nightmares, of grief and guilt over failing to save her. And all along, Prometheus had her. He'd been molding her into his perfect wife.

"We'll make him pay," I said, echoing Luka's earlier promise. "For everything."

We walked away. I glanced back once to see Rhadamanthys watching us, anticipation written across his features. The coming bloodshed would entertain him immensely.

Rules, ethics, professional boundaries. All meaningless now. I wanted Prometheus dead as badly as Luka did. For Michael. For Ana.

For Luka.

The Serbian flag outsidethe restaurant rippled in the evening wind. My jaw clenched, molars grinding as I imagined ripping it down with my teeth.

Not just one flag. Three of them, hanging from brass poles like declarations of victory over my dead family. Red, blue, and white—the colors of the people who had executed my parents, who had burned our Bosniak village to ash. The sight of them made something feral claw at the inside of my chest.

"You're hurting me," Vincent murmured, and I realized I'd been crushing his fingers.

I loosened my grip but didn't let go. His pulse fluttered against my palm like a trapped bird, anchoring me to the present instead of the past that lived in my blood.

The restaurant breathed expensive Serbian cuisine into the evening air. The scent of roasted meat and paprika made my stomach twist. The same foods my mother had cooked in our Bosniak village, claimed as Serbian culture after they slaughtered our people.

Ana. The name burned through me now. Ana wasn't dead. Ana was waiting inside with the man who'd stolen her memories and replaced them with lies. Ana was his wife.

"I still can't believe she's alive," Vincent said quietly.

"She's alive, and she doesn't know me." I echoed the words. "Twenty-six years thinking she was dead, and she's been with him the entire time."

Vincent squeezed my hand. "We'll get her back, Luka. I promise."

The promise hung in the air like smoke. How do you get someone back who doesn't know they're lost?

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