"I blocked it out. The memories. But I've been having fragments for years. The nightmares, the Russian I somehow speak. It was him teaching me. It was always him."
"Christ, Sof."
"He was going to warn me about something. The night before the massacre. And I can't remember what."
Nico exhales, and I can picture him running his hand through his hair the way he does when situations get complicated. "Sof… even if that's true, it doesn't change what happened. His family killed Dad. Killed the Morettis too. They destroyed everything."
"I know."
"Do you? Because it sounds like you're getting confused about who the enemy is."
The accusation lands hard. Am I confused? When Alexei touches me, when he looks at me with those pale eyes full of hunger and grief, when he leaves me coffee exactly how I like it, is that confusion or clarity?
"I'm not confused. I just need to understand. What I forgot. What I promised him."
"And then?"
"And then I come home. With everything I know."
The lie burns my throat, bitter as the truths I'm swallowing to keep my family safe from what I'm becoming.
After I hang up, I stare at the photos on my phone. Everything my brothers would need to cripple the Volkov operations.
I delete every photo. The Kuzmins. The shipments. Everything my family needs, gone with three taps. The Rosetti princess would never do this. But the woman who loved Mikhail, who might be falling for Alexei, she needs answers more than revenge. God, I hate myself for this weakness.
Back in his bedroom, morning light filters through bulletproof glass. My body still aches from yesterday's collapse, muscles tender from whatever seizure gripped me when the memories tried to surface.
The bedroom door opens.
Alexei looks destroyed. That's the only word for it. His shirt is wrinkled, collar undone. Stubble shadows his jaw. His eyes are red-rimmed, whether from lack of sleep or something else, I don't want to know.
He stops when he sees me, something flickering across his face too fast to read.
“I brought you coffee.” He places a steaming mug on the dresser instead of handing it to me. The gesture feels both tender and distant, like an apology for absence rather than presence.
“Thank you,” I say, crossing to pick up the mug while he retreats back toward the corridor.
"How do you feel?" His voice is hoarse, like he's been talking to ghosts all night.
"I'm fine."
"You collapsed. You…"
"I said I'm fine."
The silence stretches between us, thick with everything we can't say.
"I have meetings today." His voice has gone flat, professional, like we're discussing weather instead of the earthquake that just rearranged our entire dynamic. "You'll stay here."
"Alexei…"
"We'll talk tonight."
He moves toward the door, not meeting my eyes. This man who's held knives to my throat, who's made me bleed, who's had his fingers inside me, he can't even look at me now.
The door closes with a soft click. The lock engages.
I hurl the coffee cup against the wall. Ceramic shards scatter across hardwood, one piece sliding to rest against my bare foot, sharp as my guilt. Brown liquid runs down white paint like all the words I should have said.
