“And you need us because…?”
“Because Aleksei knows everyone in my life,” I answer. “But he doesn’t know about Eliana. Not really. He had her followed for a while, but after I…” I trail off.
“After you killed a guy and broke her heart,” Yasmin finishes flatly.
“Yeah. After that. Then he kind of assumed I was all in on his shit.”
“And are you? Are you ‘all in on his shit,’ Bastian?”
Again, I meet Yasmin’s gaze in the mirror. Eliana is watching, too. Listening. Waiting.
“I’m trying to do right by the people I love,” I say at last. “That’s all.” Yasmin harrumphs, but she seems to accept that answer, because she doesn’t ask any more questions. Not for a while, at least. Not until Chicago opens its jaws to swallow us up and the neighborhoods start to look more and more familiar—and more, and more, and more familiar, until…
“Hold the fuck up,” Yasmin protests when the puzzle pieces click in her head. “Tell me we’re not going to?—”
For the first time in a long time, I wince uncomfortably. “It’s the only place we can go. We won’t be here long.”
Yasmin’s hand flies to her mouth as she starts gnawing anxiously on her nails. I see the glimmer of unshed tears in her eyes.
“What?” asks Eliana. “Yas, what’s going on? Bastian? Bastian? For God’s sake, somebody?—”
Yasmin clears her throat. “We’re going to—to?—”
She can’t finish the sentence, so it falls on me to do it for her. I sigh as I ease the car into a parking space in front of our destination. “We’re going to Zeke’s.”
19
BASTIAN
heard /h?rd/: interjection
1: the kitchen call acknowledging that an order has been received and understood.
2: a fist to the jaw that says,Message received, asshole. Now, let’s get to work.
We climb out and go inside in a shell-shocked silence. Yasmin hasn’t stopped chewing her nails. The elevator hauls us up to the fourth floor, but the mood inside is strained. I keep looking over at Eliana, but she aims her face down toward the floor.
I’ve got my own shit to dwell on, though. I haven’t seen Zeke since before I died. That’s yet another bundle of guilt I have yet to explore. I let my best friend think I’d been executed mobland-style in a grungy warehouse and left him to grieve.
He’s gonna be fucking pissed at me, too.
Join the club, bud. It’s a packed house.
The elevator dings. We step out into the hallway. I can see Zeke’s door at the end, waiting for us, beckoning, but my feet feel like they’re encased in cement.
I have no choice but to drag them forward, though. I’m an irreparable sinner and a son of a bitch, but I’m no coward. So I walk down to #1303 and I knock on the door with scarred knuckles.
Footsteps shuffle inside. A chain jangles. The door swings open.
Zeke stands there in a faded Bulls jersey and sweatpants, a half-eaten protein bar in his hand. When he sees who’s waiting for him, his jaw drops. The protein bar hits the floor.
“What… the…fuck…”
I raise my hand in a wave. “Hey, man.”
“What theactualfuck.”
“I can explain?—”
