The Amalfi sun felt like a spotlight on a stage where every actor had forgotten their lines, or perhaps, we were all playing roles written for us a decade ago. I stood between the two men who had defined my existence—one who had used my life as an insurance policy and another who had claimed me as a debt. The Mediterranean breeze was salt-heavy and cold, carrying the scent of lemons and the metallic tang of the weapon tucked against my spine.
"The confession, Roman?" I asked, my voice as sharp as the jagged cliffs of Positano. "You hit me because you thought I was a rat? Not because of the forty million, but because you believed a twenty-two-year-old psychology student was capable of taking down the Volkov empire before breakfast?"
Roman didn't look away from my father, but I saw the min
