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“And do you remember what I asked you that day, Scarlett?” Grandmother prompts now, drawing me back to the present. “I’ll ask again now. Are you still committed to the path of justice?”

“I have never wanted anything more,” I tell her. “Not a single day goes by that I don’t mourn my brother. That I don’t relive those terrible moments. That I don’t remember that the monster who killed him walked away scot-free.”

“Then you must hold fast to that anguish, Scarlett. Let it fortify your resolve and extinguish any lingering shred of compassion or weakness. For Ariadne—and for your enemy, too.”

Over the past few years while I’ve been training here, I’ve come to realize that this is a path that leaves little room for empathy or moral quandaries. But in this moment, fresh from battling Ariadne, I still can’t ignore the pang of concern that worries at me. “Is she…will Ariadne be all right? I didn’t mean to?—”

“Ariadne is of no consequence,” Grandmother cuts me off impatiently. “She is merely a tool, as am I and every other individual you encounter on your journey. You’d be wise to relinquish any inklings of attachment.”

I bristle at the cold dismissal, feel an instinctive flare of compassion as if to spite Grandmother’s advice. But then I think of all I’ve sacrificed. My dreams of becoming a doctor, melted away. My relationship with my parents, broken off.

And Adam.

Adam, gone forever.

White-hot rage ignites in my veins, burning away any lingering doubts. “I’ll do anything to make Lyssa suffer as I have suffered. So long as it leads me to that end, I’ll do whatever you want me to do.”

Grandmother nods, a satisfied smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Then you must act quickly. Rumor has it that Juno Bianchi intends to attend the wedding of Hadria Imperioli. If the Bianchi Family publicly aligns themselves with the Styx Syndicate, the Wolf will become that much more untouchable. You must make your move now, Scarlett.”

I absorb this information, my mind racing. The stakes have never been higher. If I fail, Adam’s death will go unavenged, and the Syndicate will grow even more powerful.

I won’t let that happen. “I’ll find Lyssa again,” I vow, my voice hard as steel. “And I’ll end her, once and for all.”

Grandmother pats my hand. “See that you do, my dear.”

When I get back to my room, I pull out my phone and check the tracker again. The signal pulses steadily, taunting me, showing me that she’s safe in the Empire Grand hotel, where I can’t touch her.

But…the tracker is still active. Why wouldn’t she destroy it? Why keep it on her person? Or has she left it there just to mess with me, while she’s out doing dark and murderous deeds in the Chicago night?

But then it hits me. Lyssa wants to be found.

She’s baiting me, just like Ariadne with her cruel taunts and vicious blows. Lyssa wants me to come to her. If I watch the tracker, I’ll see where she goes. But she’ll be prepared for me to follow.

I lie down carefully on the bed, my body thrumming with a newfound sense of purpose so that I can ignore the aches and pains.

The road ahead is dark and twisted, but I’m ready to follow it wherever it may lead. For Adam, for the future that was stolen from me, I’ll do what I need to do.

I will kill Lyssa, or I will die trying.

CHAPTER 12

Lyssa

I stroll back into the Sokolov drinking hole like I own the place, my boots sticking slightly to the floor. The stale reek of spilled beer assaults my nose again, but needs must when hunting down a cunning little minx like Scarlett.

I plant myself at the scratched-up counter, scanning the dingy space with a practiced eye. The handful of regulars seem the same as last time, and they avoid meeting my gaze, no doubt recognizing me.

The weaselly bartender slinks over, his pinched face radiating a wariness that has me suppressing a grin. “You’re not welcome here,” he grits out through a thicket of crooked teeth.

I arch a challenging brow. “Then I suppose you’d better throw me out.”

The scrawny man visibly falters. A beat passes before he forces out a resigned sigh. “What’ll it be?”

Claiming a backwards perch on one of the battered stools, I cast him a lazy smile over my shoulder. “I’m sure you’ve got something decent tucked away. Surprise me.”

He pours me a finger of bottom-shelf rotgut and I throw it back in one swallow. I slam the glass back onto the bar and tap two fingers against the rim, wordlessly demanding a refill.

He complies with a glower.