We sat across from each other at the table.The fire behind him threw enough light to make half his face look carved from shadow, the other washed in orange.He stared at his hands like he was trying to decide whether to open them or close them permanently.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low.Controlled.“Your father was working with the Volkov syndicate.”
I didn’t understand at first.The words landed but didn’t arrange themselves into meaning.“No.”
He didn’t stop.“Eighteen months.He gave them Russo supply routes, safe house locations, financial data.Enough to take the entire organization apart.”
My fingers dug into the wood of the table.“My father wasn’t involved in any of that.He ran a business.He—”
“He laundered money,” Gabriel said.His eyes met mine, steady and bleak.“Fifteen years.His ‘imports’ were a front.That’s why he had access to everything.”
The room tilted for a second.I blinked until it held still again.“You’re trying to justify what you did.Lie to me so it hurts less.”
“No.”His voice stayed even.“Vincent had proof.Bank transfers, recorded calls, surveillance photos.Your father wasn’t guessing.He was selling them everything.”
Pieces slotted into place whether I wanted them to or not—late-night calls, sudden business trips, tension during holidays he thought I didn’t notice.I pressed my nails into the wood until they hurt.
“Why would he do that?”
Gabriel shook his head.“Money, maybe.Leverage.Protection.I don’t know.I wasn’t told his motives.”
“But you killed him anyway.”My voice rose without my permission.“Without knowing why.Without knowing anything except what you were told.”
“I had orders.”
The simplicity of it made something snap inside me.“Right.Because you don’t have to think.You don’t have to know if it’s right or wrong.You point.You kill.You go home.”
He flinched.It was small, but I saw it.
For a moment I wanted that to satisfy me—wanted him to feel pain, any pain, because it was all I had left to give back.But the expression on his face shifted, not to anger or defensiveness, but something closer to agony.
“I’m telling you because you should know,” he said quietly.“Not to excuse it.Just...so you don’t keep thinking it was chaos for no reason.”
I stared at him, breathing around the pressure in my chest.“Then don’t stop.All of it.Tell me.”
He hesitated before continuing.“The order came December twentieth.Your family.No witnesses.The Russos tried negotiation first.They told him to stop, return what he’d been paid, cut contact with the Volkovs.He refused.Said if anything happened to him, the Volkovs would burn the organization to the ground.”
“So they killed him anyway.”
“It’s what they do when someone endangers the family.”
“And what did it look like to you?”I asked.“Standing in our living room with a gun?”
He didn’t answer immediately.His hands tightened on nothing.“It looked like survival.Refusing means being next.”
I swallowed hard.“And my mother?”
“She knew.Tried to get him to stop.He wouldn’t.”
That hurt in a different way—quiet, deep, personal.
“And Tommy?”My voice barely worked.
“Your brother didn’t know anything.”His jaw locked.“He was collateral.Vincent doesn’t leave potential revenge alive.”
My lungs stopped working for a moment.Tommy’s face flickered through my head—laughing over pancakes during break, texting me stupid memes at midnight, telling me he didn’t need a life plan yet because he was twenty-three and had time.
“He should still be alive,” I said.Each word sharp and precise.“He didn’t deserve to die.”
