Page 53 of Mafia Kingdom

Lucas stares up at me, defiant even now. "Do it," he challenges. "Prove you're Father's son after all."

My hand is steady, the knife poised to end his life with one decisive stroke. I can almost hear our father's voice:Betrayal cannot be forgiven. A traitor must pay with blood.

But this is Lucas. My brother. The same boy who taught me to fight, who stood back-to-back with me in our first realbrawl. The man who carried Danny home when he broke his leg climbing the estate wall on a drunken dare.

My hesitation is all Lucas needs. He sees it in my eyes and smirks.

"You'll never be him," he says quietly. "You'll never be Father."

He spits in my face, blood and saliva mixing as it runs down my cheek. I pull back slightly, disgust and fury warring within me, and in that moment of distraction, Lucas bucks, throwing me off balance.

I maintain my grip on the knife but stumble backward. When I look up, Lucas is on his feet, straightening his jacket with exaggerated care despite the blood staining it.

"This isn't over," I warn him.

"No," he agrees, his smile cold. "It's just beginning."

I watch him leave, the knife still clutched in my hand, my chest heaving with exertion and something else—something that feels too much like grief.

The drive back to the estate is a blur, my mind replaying Lucas's words, searching for any explanation besides the obvious. He's my brother. We grew up together, fought together, protected each other. How could he betray us so completely?

But the evidence is undeniable. Lucas sold us out, got Danny killed, and put Sasha in danger—all for power, for his own ambition.

As I pass through the city, my phone rings—Father's number flashing on the screen. I let it go to voicemail. I'm not ready to tell him what I've discovered, not ready to admit thatone son murdered another. Not when I still don't know how deep this betrayal goes or who else might be involved.

Another call comes in immediately after—this one from the funeral home. Danny's arrangements are finalized. The service is tomorrow morning.

Reality crashes back. My youngest brother is dead, killed on Lucas's orders. Tomorrow, we'll put him in the ground, and Lucas will stand there beside us, playing the role of grieving brother while knowing his hands are stained with Danny's blood.

I pull over, suddenly unable to breathe. My knuckles are white on the steering wheel.

Lucas can't live, not after this. He's too dangerous, too unpredictable. As long as he draws breath, everyone I care about is at risk—Father, Damien, James.

Sasha.

The thought of her brings a fresh wave of complicated emotions. Last night changed things between us in ways I'm not ready to examine. She gave herself to me freely, trusted me with her body if not yet with her heart. And today, I discovered my own brother put her in danger deliberately, used her as a pawn in his twisted game.

I restart the car, decision made. Lucas has forced my hand. But first, I need to see Sasha. I need to make sure she's safe, even if I can't yet tell her why she was targeted.

Even if I can't tell her what I'm about to do.

As I drive toward the estate, a thought comes unbidden: What if there was another way? What if I could walk away from all of this—the business, the violence, the endless cycle of betrayal and retribution?

What if Sasha and I just disappeared?

The fantasy lasts only a moment before reality reasserts itself. There is no escape from who I am, from what I've done.Men like me don't get happy endings. We don't get to ride off into the sunset with the girl.

We get blood on our hands and graves to visit. We get hard choices and harder consequences.

And tomorrow, I'll have another brother to bury—one way or another.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Sasha

I WAKE TO an empty bed, my hand instinctively sliding across the cool sheets where Marco's body should be. The space beside me has long gone cold. Sunlight streams through a gap in the curtains, telling me it's well past morning. I haven't slept this late in years.

A small piece of paper on his pillow catches my eye. I reach for it, recognizing Marco's surprisingly elegant handwriting: Had to step out. Back soon. Stay inside.

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