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“Geezus, Ero. And no one knew who you were?”

“Most people never knew who the four of us were. Just that we existed. The benefit of being the ‘silent one’ was that no one knew anything about me. And there was the whole, I got killed in Spain. Cops recovered a body. Claimed it was me to save face.”

“Explains why the Bratva told me you died.”

“I did. A couple of times. Defib is a bitch. Gives you a reputation when you survive, though.”

“Ugh. The last thing you need is more of an attitude. Pfft. Ghost.”

“Anyway, I’ve been part of Adil’s Hand for a few months. In that time I’ve killed three hundred people.”

The statement slaps me across the face. I stare at him for a moment, stunned. Not just because of the number, but because of the neutral, impassive look on his face.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve killed. A lot.

But always for a reason, for survival, or self-defense.

“And you just…agreed to this?”

“Don’t judge me. I didn’t know what else to do. Aless and Adri always gave the orders. I just…”

For the first time, I see it.

The sense of uncertainty. Ero always seemed like the one who just got it. Who knew what we were and accepted it. But he was just…

A kid. Given a gun, told what to point it at.

It never occurred to me that he couldn’t survive without someone to report to. That his silence and brooding nature might have been more than sociopathic tendencies. Or maybe something really is wrong with his brain. Maybe he really believes that his actions don’t count, that it was Adil’s choice and not his.

“You killed the Bratva leaders?” I jump ahead, summarizing.

“Yes. Some. My counterparts took care of the rest.”

“And the Volk? How many did you kill?”

“I do not know. When things got out of hand in St. Petersburg I was ordered to go in and clean up the mess, take out any stragglers. That’s when I ran into you. And the insane guy with the flattop.”

“Fyodor.”

We’re approaching a small building on a low cliff, overlooking the sea. It’s simple. Fairly well hidden from the main road. Just the kind of place someone like Ero would keep as a crash pad.

“I finally got my own place.” And he fuckingsmiles. Or as close as Ero ever gets to it.

“You just have to leave it every time your master blows his dog whistle,” I mutter, unsettled by the expression on his face.

We stand on the grassy cliff for a moment before heading in, carrying Vanya and placing her on the bed. The place is spartan, minimalist. Fiero’s always been tidy. Never owned many things.

When I get back into the living area, he cracks open a couple of beers from the fridge, passes one to me. “Now your turn.”

I sit down, unsure of what else to do. This isn’t right. None of it.

But I dive into a version of my story, leaving out key details. Stuff that my oaths to the Bratva and Vanya will not allow me to share.

And it dawns on me what’s really bothering me.

That I can’t trust this man. My brother. He is as much a Mocro as I am a Bratva now.

We both broke out oaths to our family, the Diamantes. Even if we are scattered to winds, something about it eats at me. Shames me for the first time.