Page 139 of Immaculate Corruption (Romanoff Bratva)

Father freezes. Then, slowly, he turns in place. His eyes go from me to Ilyasov, from Ilyasov to me, again and again. Like he can’t decide which one of us is disappointing him more.

Even as an old man, he’s huge and intimidating. We both got our size from him. Those massive shoulders. Those smoldering eyes. The hands that can break a man’s spine in a single snap.

But he’s no match for what’s coming next.

“I cannot tell you how much it hurts my heart to see you both here,” he intones. “You let your love for one another blind you from what matters most.”

“Love is a weapon,” I repeat softly. It’s what he’s told us again and again. The one lesson that he’s drilled into our heads above all.

He nods. “Love is a weapon, indeed. But you’ve both chosen to let it use you instead of the other way around.”

“We chose not to let a deluded old man move us around like chess pieces,” Ilyasov snaps.

The anger in his voice surprises me. Back in his bedroom, he seemed so calm and cool. Now, in the presence of our father, he’s barely managing to restrain himself. The whites of his eyes are gleaming, his knuckles are tight, and he’s fidgeting in place as if he can’t keep himself still.

“It’s all part of the game,” Father whispers.

“You’re right,” Ilyasov snaps. “And down goes the king.”

He rips the knife from my hand, takes one strong lunge towards Father, and plunges the blade right into his chest.

I stand frozen in place and watch as he withdraws the bloody knife and brings it down again and again. Five, ten, twenty times, he stabs our father in the heart. Until his hand and face are both drenched with the blood of the former Romanoff don.

Only when Father isn’t moving anymore does Ilyasov turn to me. He looks like something from a nightmare. Glistening crimson head to toe. A fire in his eyes that I don’t understand.

And then he grins. Slow and savage and cruel.

As if this was part of his plan all along.

* * *

Present Day—The Romanoff Mansion

I open my eyes. I’m still in the ballroom, and part of me wonders if I’m still in fact dead or dreaming. But when I try to move and the greatest pain I’ve ever felt rips through me like a lightning bolt, I know that I’m still alive.

Only life can hurt this much.

There’s a smell in the air. Smoke, I think, although my senses are fucked up so I can’t be sure. The heat radiating through the room makes the images in the mirrored walls waver like a mirage. I struggle up to my elbows, gasping with the effort.

“Ilya…” I groan. Speaking hurts. Breathing hurts. Moving hurts.

But I have to move. I somehow manage to flip onto my hands and knees and start crawling. Every inch feels like a mile.Every breath feels like being shot all over again.

The closer I get to the door, the stronger the heat gets. And when I reach it and nudge it open, I understand why.

Flames are running up and down the length of the hallway. Through the open door to the living room a few dozen yards away, I can see more fire engulfing the furniture and climbing up the curtains.

I use the doorframe to pull myself upright. Smoke fills my lungs on the first breath at this height. I hack hard. The motion makes fresh blood ooze from the bullet wound in my chest.

It’s a miracle I’m alive. But the window for survival won’t last long. Each cough costs me more seconds of my life. I have to get out.

I start to walk towards the front door, using the wall for support. One foot in front of the other. This hurts even worse than crawling did.

Somehow, I make it to the corner. I round it. And as I do, I see that the hardwood in the middle of the foyer has given way. There’s a huge, ragged circle in the middle where the planks have burned up to a crisp. It’s like a burning, open mouth, ready to swallow me whole.

I grit my teeth and start to edge around it. The front doors are in sight now on the other side of the gaping crater, though they’re still impossibly far away for how fast I’m moving. The flames keep getting hotter, too. I’m running out of time.

“You can make it,” I wheeze to myself. “Do it for your son. Do it for Arya.”

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