“Misha.” There was plenty of anger in his father’s voice, but it was outweighed now by disappointment, and even though Misha had made his decision knowing what he’d have to give up, it still hurt. All his life, he’d tried to make his papa proud of him. He’d taken the beatings, absorbed the lessons, let those two grizzled Russian wolves shape him into a weapon of their own design, and he’d soaked up the rare praise and thrived on every hint of approval. Whatever worth he’d gained, though, he’d just lost it.

So be it.

He eased his finger off the trigger and carefully, deliberately engaged the safety. Didn’t look away from Anton, because he wasn’t stupid, but angled his body so he had a better line of sight at the area beyond.

“J.C.?”

J.C. took a step forward, not so subtly reminding everybody that, yes, there was another crew here, and they were armed to the teeth, thank you very much. He looked reassuringly unruffled, as if a mafia family drama wasn’t anything new or noteworthy at all.

“Yeah?”

“We need safe passage.”

And an invisibility cloak, Misha thought grimly, but he’d take what he could get.

“I get a say,” Riley growled, apropos of nothing, “and I say no.”

Everybody stared at him.

Riley glared back balefully and shifted closer to Misha, who had to fight the instinct to reach out and pull him even closer. His face must’ve betrayed something of his desires, though, because his father tensed up noticeably.

“Don’t do this,” Vasiliy ordered, his dark eyes fixed on his rebellious son, suddenly not quite so confident in his ability to call Misha to heel. “No cunt is worth this, Mikhail.”

Misha’s hand clenched around the grip of his gun, but Riley’s soft, derisive snort diffused his anger somewhat. Just a word, he reminded himself. If Riley could dismiss it so easily, then so could Misha. They had more pressing problems than Vasiliy’s diction.

Apparently, McClane didn’t quite agree with that sentiment.

“No,” Riley said, sounding faintly impatient, “you can’t kill him, either.”

This time, the stares were distinctly uncomfortable.

Misha, who would’ve given a lot to be privy to McClane’s side of the conversation, patted Riley’s shoulder consolingly then sneakily curled his fingers around the taut curve of Riley’s neck and kept them there. Just making sure Riley was fine.

“Don’t worry, McClane. The way things are going, you’ll get to do your part,” he murmured, and he could’ve sworn the skin under his hand turned smoothly metallic for a moment in response.

“You leave whenever you want, kid,” J.C. chipped in, completely ignoring the byplay. “Your daddy and his party will stay overnight. Hell, I think I even got a bottle of vodka for him somewhere. He looks like he’ll need it.”

Misha wanted to smile, but couldn’t. This was it. No turning back. He glanced at his sister and found her looking both satisfied and a little wistful.