Nik
Ican almost see it.
Us. This. A life of freedom, severed entirely from the life of the mafia.
The life I’ve always known. The life I’ve never truly dreamed of escaping. It’s in me. This worldisme. I don’t know who I’d be without it. I am the soldier.
And what is a soldier without a war to fight in?
She sleeps curled against me, her breath soft, her hair damp and curling from the shower. I stroke it, cool silk against my fingertips.
And I can almost see it.
We could travel. Live abroad. We could live in the city, and she could paint and work in her gallery. I could get skilled jobs—after all, I still have quite the skillset. We could see the world together.
Settle down. Build a house. Have children. A family. Sons, maybe, who would never know the cruel world of their father or their father’s father.
I can almost see it all.
Almost.
16
Zane
Iknow what I have to do.
I remind myself of this as I creep out of bed and get dressed, as I gather what I need—mostly guns and the car keys—as I close and lock the door behind me, and sneak down the stairs.
I expect Nik to catch me. If this were a movie, he would. He’d wake and chase me down the stairs. He’d convince me not to do this. He’d tell me he loved me, and win me over, and we would go forth and fight this battle together. Side by side.
But when I reach the car and look up, the shadowed building is as still as a grave. Behind it the city glows, throwing dust gold shadows on the clouds. It smells like rain.
Before I left, I looked at him one last time, sleeping soundly. In sleep he looked utterly at peace, as though the concerns of this world couldn’t touch him where he was. For a moment, I imagined a life where he always looked this happy, this soft around the edges. A life where we were mundane; safe, always, from danger.
I hold that image in my mind as I get into the car and drive. It’s a fantasy, that future. It was never meant for us.
I see only one way that I can save my father and Nikolai. I see only one way to win this for everyone I love.
And unfortunately, in this reality—I don’t come out of it alive.
* * *
The storage lot is sinister, deathly still in the night. As I pull up, it begins to rain. A cold, creeping mist, an autumnal reminder that real winter is on the way. Thunder crackles in the distance, and lightning gleams on the river.
I want to stay in the car. Wrap my arms around myself, sink low, close my eyes and let the black tide of sleep take me under.
But I’ve come this far. There’s no turning back.
Eerily, there are no bodies in the lot. It even looks like the blood has been hosed off. Careful—that’s how Yvan Lebedev has survived all of these years so far from home. I almost respect him for that. He’s been a shadow for so long he’s almost a myth, and all because he cleans up the blood he spills. Smart.
Scary.
But I don’t dare let myself indulge in fear. I have a job to do, and it requires boldness.
The storage warehouse in the distance isn’t lit. I wipe rain from my eyes and watch it from the shadows for a few minutes, but if there are any guards posted, they don’t show themselves. There’s no door to the warehouse, only a gaping rusted doorway. Once I’m confident I’m alone, I head in.
Rain drums on the half-caved corrugated steel roof. The warehouse is a few stories high, but the floors are broken and the steel staircases warped and rusted.Underground.That’s what Maya said. She gave us a rough layout of the place, which I’ve committed to memory. But sneaking isn’t exactly the objective. Staying alive long enough to sacrifice myself to Lebedev though—that’s important. That’s everything.
