66

Camila

Yannick is staring at his hands. He links his fingers, twists them, creating every possible position his joints can manage.

“Once upon a time,” he starts, “I had a son. Pyotr.” His eyes close like someone threw salt in them, his lips making a sour frown. “I loved him more than anything or anyone in this world.”

He had another son? The past tense is a megaphone. My blood seems to thicken in my veins.

Fondness enters his eyes, warming them. “Pyotr was always a wild child. That’s natural, of course. He was a prince of the Bratva, and my future heir.” His hands twist, the brittle mood returning tenfold. “Back then, Asher was my brigadier. I trusted him with everything. With my life and my son’s life.”

My stomach drops out from beneath me. I know where this is going, and I need to stop it. I want to clasp my hands over his mouth or run away while covering my ears. But I can’t move, and Yannick presses on.

“He was supposed to keep my boy safe.” Those hands wring until all the blood f