Page 129 of Nemesis

Alex rises from his chair across from me, face creased in a mixture of exhaustion and grief. I feel bad for dragging him along while his sons and wife are left behind in the wreckage, but I can’t trust anyone else to guard my back right now. Our soldiers don’t meet my gaze, and Dad’s allies won’t take our calls.

“Are you ready for this?”

I pull myself up to standing as the jet slows.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“If they separate us, remember what I said. What we have to offer.”

“I remember,” I murmur.

And I do.

I remember every word of preparation uttered on the two-hour flight. I remember the various streams of income that fund our syndicate. I remember the names of our underbosses, each rehearsed silently on the tip of my tongue.

I remember the slick sensation of clutching his bloody shirt between my fingers.

“Octavia,” Alex calls out, wandering between the seats to my side. “There’s one other thing we should discuss.”

“What is it?” My voice is still scratchy from the screams. I clear my throat, turning back to face him. The brown arcs beneath his eyes match mine, brightened by shock. He lost a brother and a son within the span of an hour.

“Vasiliy.”

I narrow my gaze. “What about him?”

“We have no claim to him,” he explains, dragging a hand over his face. “I know you’re going to ask Solokov to help return him.”

I open my mouth, but he waves me off before I can speak to that claim. “I’m not passing judgment. It’s a wise move. He’s a loyal soldier and a powerful strategist.”

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been thinking about how I might leverage Vas’ return while we’re in New York. I know Solokov and him have a relationship, so I’m hoping the connection will at least allow me in the door.

“But as a leader of the Siderov Bratva, there are only a few ways you could lay claim to a Morozov heir,” Alex explains, following me down the foggy plane steps. Condensation mists my face.

Two black SUVs pull up to the tarmac.

Ours. Not theirs.

I thought it would be best not to give a warning of our approach.

Always ask for forgiveness, not permission, one of the kids in my foster house used to say. The words stuck with me. The face did not.

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” I finally respond. “I’ll be laying a claim they won’t be able to question.”

The rain picks up. One of the few soldiers we took with us steps forward, cracking a dark umbrella. I move beneath, hand automatically shifting to check for the weight of my weapon. Before we left, I showered and changed into a fresh set of black cargo pants and a tight, long-sleeve zip-up.

It doesn’t matter.

The layer of blood still remains on my skin.

I climb into the car in silence, doing my best not to think about anything but the information I learned on the plane.

I’m not thinking about my gentle-hearted cousin, trapped somewhere in pain.

I’m not thinking of how easily I dropped my father’s hand and rose from the ground.

The road transitions from spaced suburbia to clustered apartments. Traffic picks up around us, horns blaring through the endless downpour that pelts our windows. Something about returning to the city like this thickens my anger. My body remembers all the hurt and pain I felt here.

I embrace the feeling.