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Is he Nojus’s brother? Because. . .he just shot him like it was nothing.

He steeples his fingers in front of him, pressing his index fingers against his lower lip. “Most people would’ve seen him as predator and me as prey, but one little tool takes that edge away. One bullet, and I’m the predator.” He inhales slowly and smiles. “Unlike my brother, I’m not rendered idiotic by a pretty face, even when it’s spectacular.”

That gives me even more heebie-jeebies than I got when Nojus tried to compliment me.

“He’s left our family business in a shambles, and I’m stuck cleaning up his mess. I suppose you could say that, seeing you here, this little tiny girl, and realizing that he trained his men so badly that they didn’t flee from an alpha predator and lost their lives. . .” He tsks. “It helped me finally see that only his death could turn our image around.”

He murdered his own brother, and he doesn’t even seem upset.

“The real question is, do you also have to die?” He drops a hand and taps his lip with just one finger. “I can’t honestly think of another use for you. I’ll be able to tell people that both the cause of the problems and the incompetent leader during the disaster were dealt with.”

He reaches behind his back, and I realize he’s going for the gun again.

“Wait,” I say. “I’m a jockey. Your biggest rival is—um—” Why am I blanking on that Belarusian mobster’s name. “It starts with an R. Radzivan!”

“What about him?” He’s frowning, but he stops going for his gun.

“He’s got that Akhal-Teke Thoroughbred cross he’s been bragging about for months.”

He frowns. “So?”

“I can pay my two weeks’ interest by winning a race against him. Nojus has a new thoroughbred filly that’s been clocking better than that cross—he had a guy who was sending him times from Radzivan’s operation.”

“Thanks, but I can pay for a jockey.” He stands.

I stand, too. “Why pay for a mediocre one when I’m the best?” I hate the quiver in my voice. “If you kill me, you’ll be out whatever you’d pay a trainer and a jockey leading up to the race.” I pause. “And you’ll lose.”

He’s thinking about it. He sighs. “When’s the next race?”

“It’s—” I’m not sure. I’ve been gone too long.

“Three weeks from tomorrow,” the tall man says. “Jurgis said that yesterday. Nojus already paid the entry fee on a horse.”

“And you’re positive this filly of my brother’s will win?” He lifts one eyebrow.

Who’s ever positive a horse will win, really? No one, unless they’ve fixed the race. “Of course,” I lie. My other alternative is a bullet through my brain—I’m not dumb enough to say I’m not sure.

“I’ll give you a three-week reprieve. If you win, we’ll be square. But if you lose, I’ll kill you and someone you love.” He turns toward the tall man. “Does she have a boyfriend?”

The tall man shakes his head.

“Mother?”

He nods.

“Great. You and your mother.”

I would not have agreed to that. “Whoa—”

“You clearly need to put something more at risk. Your life’s already forfeit.” He tilts his head as he reaches for his gun again. “If you don’t want a deal, I can just wrap things up now.”

My heart races. I want to be the kind of person who wouldn’t ever risk her mother’s life. I want to be as brave as my sister. But at the end of the day, I’m not Mirdza.

Surely if I tell Mirdza what’s going on, she and Grigoriy can keep Mom safe, right?

No.

However much I may fear this man and his trigger-happy finger, I can’t do it. I can’t kick the soccer ball down the field and hope I don’t kill my own mother.