Then Alexei speaks. "We need to get out of here. Take Victoria home."
He's right. The police will come. Questions will be asked. Bodies will need to be explained.
But first, I need to understand what just happened.
I look at Luan across Ramiz's corpse.
He meets my gaze steadily. No regret in his eyes. No triumph. Just cold acceptance of what he's done.
"Take your wife home, Maksim," he says quietly. "My men and I will handle this."
Why?
The question burns but I don't ask it.
"Thank you," I say instead.
Luan nods once. Then turns away, already issuing orders to his men in rapid Albanian.
I watch him for a moment longer. This man who killed his father without hesitation. This man whose motivations I don't understand and probably never will.
One complex and dangerous motherfucker.
But that's a problem for another day.
I turn to my brothers and to Victoria, who's still shaking in my arms.
"Let's go home," I tell them.
Victoria nods against my chest.
Zakhar and Alexei move to flank us, creating a protective wall as we walk toward the exit.
Behind us, Luan begins the grim work of erasing this night.
Ahead of us, Chicago waits in the rain.
And between us, Victoria breathes.
Alive. Safe.
41
VICTORIA
I stand in my bathroom, hair dripping water down my spine, each drop a cold trail against skin I've scrubbed raw. The towel wrapped around me feels too rough, terry cloth abrading my shoulders. The silence after tonight's chaos presses against my eardrums.
Hours ago, a gun was against my head.
Now I'm here. Clean. Alive. Trying to remember to breathe when your body still thinks it's dying.
The shower didn't help. I stayed under the spray until the water ran cold, scrubbing at skin that felt contaminated by Ramiz's hands, his breath, the wrongness of his touch. Pink-tinged water spiraled down the drain with his blood. I used the expensive soap, vanilla and sandalwood, my signature scent. But underneath it I still smell fear. Sweat and terror and something metallic that won't wash away.
The water couldn't wash away the flashbacks.
Jelena dropping to the floor dead. Vitor's eyes, open and empty. Ramiz's breath hot against my ear. The gunshot that ended it, still echoing in my skull.
I pull on clothes with unsteady fingers. Oversized t-shirt, soft and worn. Baggy sweatpants hanging loose on my hips, drawstring pulled tight. Nothing elegant. Nothing requiring the careful construction of image. Just fabric against skin, comfort I don't quite feel but need anyway.
