"Isa!"
The sound of his voice was a physical blow, ripping through the haze of shock and the ringing of the alarm. It wasn't the cold, smooth voice of the Don I usually knew; it was raw, frantic, and edged with a terrifying, primal fear.
I hadn't moved. I stood there, rooted in the center of the room, the dagger still clutched in my hand, my knuckles white. Blood, his men's blood, was smeared across the mother-of-pearl handle and running down my wrist. I couldn't look at the three crumpled forms on the plush carpet. I could only stare at Vladimir.
His face was a mask of pure, unfiltered fury, the kind that promises global devastation. But beneath the fury, his emerald eyes, usually chips of ice, were burning with a desperate, frantic relief. He looked at the bodies, then at the blood on
