Fountains of dust and debris erupt. Two dozen of Ilya's mercenaries are promptly trampled beneath a herd of FBI agents in SWAT gear. Riot shields, batons held high, all of them dripped head to toe in the government's finest battle armor.
Gunfire drowns out screams. Smoke grenades hiss and pop. The cathedral becomes a war zone of ricocheting bullets and shattering marble.
But I barely register any of it. My world has contracted to two singular points:
The bathroom.
And my brother's face as he stalks toward me through the chaos, lips pulled back in a rictus of rage.
I can't face both. Time slows to a crawl as I weigh my options, each heartbeat an eternity of indecision.
Nova.
Ilya.
Hope.
Heartache.
My future or my past.
Love or vengeance.
In the end, it's simple. If I let my brot
