Despite what I had said, he still looked like he wanted to argue.

But then, after a moment of consideration, he relented and was gone.

I was relieved.

Narek had crossed a lot of lines to tell me what he had, and I would forever appreciate what he had been willing to risk on Kayla’s behalf.

But I couldn’t tell him that. At least not in so many words.

The kind of disloyalty to my father he had displayed was something that should have been an automatic death sentence.

But despite how I had counseled him before, I was making an exception of my own.

Less than ten minutes after arriving, I left the safe house and headed to the stockyards.

I noticed the scenery this time too and made myself—and Kayla—a promise I knew I would always keep.

I would do what needed to be done—would do anything—to make sure that Kayla was okay.

Acknowledging that, accepting it, gave me a clarity that was freeing.

I had one job here: protect Kayla.

I’d failed at it so far, but I wouldn’t fail now.

Wouldn’t fail ever again.

I pulled up to the perimeter of the old stockyard and studied the scene.

The yard was in complete disrepair. The abandoned pens, rusted vehicles, and rotting tires looked like something out of a horror movie. And at first glance, it looked like nothing had been moved in years.

But I quickly spotted my father’s security.

Were Davit and I behind this, the guards I spotted would have been a decoy and a ploy to draw an attack. This time, I was banking on my father’s mercenaries being sloppy.

And after my first strike, I knew my gamble was correct.

I took out the two guards I’d seen with efficient strikes. Two quick punctures to their jugular veins and they were down. Messy, but I didn’t give a fuck about the gore. My focus now was on getting inside as quickly and silently as I could.

Which I did with relative ease.

Three more quick strikes took out the guards just inside the dilapidated building, and their spurting blood added to the mess I had already made of my suit.

Before I went deeper into the building, I tucked my knife into my waist band and slipped brass knuckles onto my fingers. Their weight felt good against my fingers, and I would have no hesitance to use them.

As I walked over the rotting floorboards, listening as mice scurried in my wake, I finally let myself envision what my father was doing. I’d known but hadn’t let myself really picture it. I did now, knowing it wouldn’t prepare me for the reality of seeing it, but not wanting to go in completely cold.

He’d start off soft, or what he would consider soft. A pinch on the cheek that would become an openhanded slap.