“Nothing,” I say as he approaches because I don’t know what the fuck that was. “I just… tripped.”

He tilts my chin up, clearly not buying my excuse. “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Getting cold feet?”

I steel myself. “No.” I tug out of his grasp and bypass him to walk toward the large barn past the ruin, where I see soldiers standing guard. Amadeo and Bastian join me within moments with their longer stride. A guard opens the barn door, and the men inside squint into the bright light. We enter, and the first thing I note is the smell of rot. I don’t know how long ago this place was in use, but something stinks. The scent is barely masked by that of blood and animals.

“Line them up,” Amadeo orders.

Soldiers move into action, and a few moments later, eleven men kneel before us in various states of distress, all with their arms bound behind their backs.

“Where’s the twelfth?”

A soldier gestures to the corner where a body lies unmoving, flies already buzzing as they feed.

My stomach turns, but I swallow that down too. I’ll swallow it all because what doesn’t kill me has to make me stronger, or I’m finished. And it’s not just about me anymore. There’s my little sister to consider.

But I shudder all the same at the memory the words conjure.

Amadeo and Bastian walk along the line of kneeling men looking at each one, remarking on some. When one of them, the one who’d pulled the beer out of the cooler, spits at Bastian’s feet, Bastian backhands him so hard that the man topples backward, and a soldier has to haul him upright. The next time he spits, it’s more a drooling of a bloody tooth.

Amadeo starts at one end of the line. Taking his pistol out of its shoulder holster, he presses it so hard against the first man’s forehead that his neck is forced back at a painful angle. “Who ordered the attack?” he asks.

“Nobody.”

Without hesitating, Amadeo pulls the trigger. I jump as the man drops, and Amadeo moves to the next one like this is the most natural thing on earth to him. Bastian’s eyes burn into me, but I can’t drag my gaze from Amadeo’s broad back. His merciless justice.

He asks the next man the same question. The man looks terrified, and his eyes meet mine momentarily. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. He said—”

A gunshot cuts him off, and my heart beats double-time.

It’s the third one’s turn. Same question. This one looks at his two dead buddies, then up at the brothers and me. Then into the barrel of Amadeo’s gun.

“Who ordered the attack?” Amadeo repeats. I hear the impatience in his voice.