Page 124 of Unbroken

She shrugs like she’s heard it all before. “As if that’s never happened. The question isn’t whether it’s strange. The question is—is it right?”

I sit with that. Let it settle.

She’s right. That’s the only question that matters. And yeah—it is right.

Deep voices echo from the hallway—male, low, familiar.

Zoya sighs and leans back in her chair. “Here we go.”

Chapter 28

VADKA

“You saw her at the house?”I ask, locking eyes with Ruthie.

“Yep,” she says, but there’s something in her tone—something tight and stubborn. Her gaze is flinty. Wild horses couldn’t drag the full truth out of her right now. But she’s trusted me this far, followed me into darkness, taken my hand and leaped without asking where we’d land.

So I take her answer. And I nod.

“Ruthie saw her last night,” I say to Rafail. “She’s an eyewitness.”

“Good thing I updated the biometrics,” Matvei says with a dry smile.

“Yeah,” Rafail replies softly. “Good thing.”

Luka isn’t paying attention—swinging his feet at the table like he hasn’t a care in the world. He’s drinking milk andeating cereal, completely oblivious to the war zone we’re crawling out of. I ruffle his hair as Semyon walks in.

“We’ll salvage what we can from the warehouse. Back to business as usual in a couple of weeks,” Semyon says, practical and always five steps ahead.

“And we got word about the bar,” he adds, his voice low. “Fucking battle scene.”

We’re all gathered now, coffee and tea in hand, trying to feel normal. Ruthie looks pale, her edges frayed. She’s nibbling on crackers, sipping peppermint tea—says it helps.

“The Irish. Inner circle. McCarthy clan. Six of them. Gone.”

Zoya’s at the sink, scrubbing a dish like it holds the secrets to the universe. Her back’s turned, but her silence is louder than words. If there’s ever a poker face, she’s wearing it now.

She insists she was home last night. Finally admitted there was gunfire at the bar, she heard shots, a friend of hers was there, and she knew we’d go. That she knew the Irish were gunning for us. So she steered us away—toward the warehouse. Called everyone out.

It’s a flimsy story. But Rafail accepts it.

Matvei steps forward, drops a USB onto the table, and opens up files—photos and surveillance footage.

“Do I wanna know how you got these?” Rafail asks him.

Matvei just grins. “Nope.”

We lean over the table, eyes glued to the images.

“The Irish are gone,” Semyon mutters. “Can’t imagine even The Undertaker?—”

“These men were older,” Matvei adds. “All branded. McCarthy loyalists. They didn’t come to negotiate. They came to end us.”

He taps the screen. “They had a plan. A full-on attack. On this house. But something—someone—derailed it.”

Rafail speaks, his voice low and measured. “So what you’re saying is… the ones who were supposed to kill us—are dead?”

There’s a beat of stillness. Zoya rinses a pan, her expression unreadable.