Every movement was controlled, measured, terrifying in its restraint.
He straightened to his full height, shoulders rolling back, power radiating off him in suffocating waves.
The stool scraped violently across the damp concrete as his boot struck it—sent it flying into the darkness where it hit metal with a hollow, echoing clang.
“It was your sister,” he said, his voice dropping low, dangerous, almost a growl, “who killed my sister... with a hundred and fifteen punches. And she didn’t even stop when it was clear she was dead.”
His hands curled into fists so tight the knuckles turned bone-white. Veins stood out along his forearms like cords pulled too tight.
“Amy.”
The name came out raw. Exposed. Like a wound he never let breathe.
“That’s correct,” I whispered.
The words barely carried through the rising wind.
I looked at him the way a woman already standing at the edge of the grave looks at the man holding the shovel—without illusion. Without hope.
“But I didn’t kill your wife,” I continued, forcing myself to stay upright, to stay present. “And what my sister did to yours... has nothing to do with me. I’ve done nothing to you, Ruslan.”
It wasn’t a miracle that words tore out of me—clear and sharp.
Something inside me had snapped, overriding fear, pain, habit.
The silence that followed was worse than a scream.
Then he laughed.
Once.
Short. Sharp. Empty of humor.
“You’ve done nothing to me?” He repeated it slowly, tasting the words like something rotten. “Your sister beat mine to death—one hundred and fifteen punches. One hundred and fifteen.” His voice rose just enough for the number to land like a blow. “You butchered my pregnant wife and the child inside her. Your ex-fiancé—Harris—kidnapped my son and slaughtered two of my men.”
He took a step toward me.
Then another.
“And you stand there,” he said, eyes burning, “covered in dirt, surrounded by graves, and dare tell me you’re innocent?”
Before I could answer, the sky spoke for him.
Thunder rolled overhead—deep, violent, shaking the ground beneath our feet. The air turned heavy, charged. The first drops of rain struck my face, cold and sudden, splattering against my skin, my hair, the scattered ash at my feet.
I tilted my head back.
The clouds had thickened into a solid mass of black, swallowing the moon. California rain—rare, unforgiving—never arrived gently. When it came, it came like punishment.
Ruslan followed my gaze skyward.
He didn’t flinch.
The rain came harder—fat drops turning into a steady, brutal downpour. It soaked the earth, darkened the open graves, turned ash to mud.
I dragged air into my lungs and forced the words out.
“D-Divorce me... please... let me go,” I stammered, voice raw, trembling like it could shatter at any moment.
