Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Luka up yet?
I hate leaving him.
A few seconds later, I get a response. It’s a picture of Luka sitting at the kitchen table, grinning, eating something topped with billows of whipped cream. I can’t help but smile.
No juice until he ate first?
Ruthie
Yeah yeah
Little brat. I roll my eyes. I can still see her standing in the living room, eying my five o’clock shadow like she wanted to touch me.
My sister liked you clean-shaven.
It stuck with me for some reason, probably because I remember the way she and her sister used to bicker about it. Mariah hated beards, and Ruthie said she loved them and always teased me when she caught me first thing in the morning. Silly, pointless argument I thought I’d forgotten.
What the fuck’s the matter with me? I can’t think like this. God.
I move through the front of Black Line Security. My men nod. Some murmur greetings, but no one makes small talk. I get it. They don’t know which version of me they’re getting today. Hell, I don’t know which version of myself I’m getting today.
My father was a useless asshole, but he loved his proverbs and spouted them with regularity. I still remember some of them.
Gore ne sprosit, kogda pridet.
Grief will not ask when it arrives.
And isn’t that a bitch.
I swipe my badge at the entrance to the privacy room, the one with the maps, screens, and encrypted comms. This isn’t any old security firm but a fortress and a front. And every man here knows on which side of that line he stands.
Rafail is already waiting for me.
He doesn’t look up when I enter but just points at the screen. The motherfucker can hold a grudge.
“They’ve moved.”
Of course they fucking have.
I take in the red dots blinking on the map. “Any casualties?”
“None today, but it’s only a matter of time, Vadka. And this was near a fucking school.”
“Jesus.”
My jaw tightens.
“And the thumb drive?”
“Still encrypted. Even Matvei hasn’t gotten shit.”
I don’t answer. Instead, I walk toward the screens, take the mouse, and pull up the files. I move fast. The Irish aren’t stupid. They hit when we’re weakest.
“You can’t slip. Not now, Vadka,” Rafail says softly.
I still. I hate that tone. It’s worse than when he curses me out.
“I know.”
“Your phone was off. You missed the alert last night. You didn’t check until hours later, and only because Ruthie told you, didn’t she?”
I don’t answer. He’s right.
“You used to be the first on-site. Now I have to send men to cover for you.”
I turn to face him. “I’m sorry. Luka’s had a few rough nights.”
He raises a brow, cold and collected. “And you think the Irish give a shit about Luka’s sleep schedule? You think they’ll wait until you’ve had your morning coffee?” He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Brother, I’ve been exactly where you are.”
I know he has. I remember it vividly. It was the first night my father ever hit me, and I hit him back.
“I was eighteen when my parents died and left me with everything. I became a fucking father and pakhan overnight. I couldn’t fall apart.” He shakes his head. “The same day of their funeral, I buried my parents, then went straight to the butcher shop to slit the throat of a traitor who thought to make good on our temporary setback. Fucking asshole owed us and thought he’d run, thought grief made me soft.”
I nod. I didn’t know that. I wasn’t in the Bratva, not yet.
“You want to feel something, Vadka? Do it after the war. After you know your son’s safe. After you know you can wake up in the morning and depend on the sun to keep on rising.”
Rafail's voice slices clean through the fog in my head, cutting deeper than a blade. I don't look at him. I stare at the red lips still pulsing on the screen, glowing like fresh wounds. Targets.
An odd one. My jaw is clenched so tight that I can feel the tension throbbing behind my ears. Or is that a headache? I've lost track.
"I won't ever tell you to stop grieving," Rafail says, his voice rough. I know he speaks from experience. "I don't know if that ever fully goes away. But I'm telling you to weaponize it before someone innocent gets caught in the crossfire. Be the fucking monster they're terrified of. Not reckless, not going off half-cocked on a shooting spree. Not the man who's burned himself the fuck out and is too tired to show up."
My eyes snap to his. He's not calling me any of those things, but he's telling me that's what could happen. We’ve both seen it happen before. We both know we could see it happen again.
I think of Matvei, how he watched his sister die, and his brother—killed by his own hand because of betrayal. He continued to show up, even after we found out his parents betrayed him, too, that his whole fucking family was useless. And yet—he's still here.