I don’t know if that’s true. But I’d say anything right now to stop her tears.
“I know.” Her voice cracks. “I just hate that Viktor did this. Mom says I’m not to blame, but I can’t help it. I feel like I brought trouble to our doorstep, and Julian paid the price.”
“Stop.” My voice is a growl, and I force myself to soften it. “That’s not true. Viktor is the bad guy here. What if you’d rejected him at the beginning? Maybe he would’ve come after your family then. That wouldn’t be your fault, and this isn’t your fault.”
She stares at Julian for another long moment, then squeezes his hand once.
“We should go. My dad will want to see him.”
We say goodbye to her family, and I take her home. She’s quiet on the drive, staring out the window at the passing lights. Whenwe get to my place, I pull her into bed and wrap my arms around her.
She doesn’t cry. Just presses her face against my chest and breathes.
I hold her all night.
On Friday, I spend the entire day hunting Viktor.
I’ve been searching for a while now, but today is different. Today, every time I close my eyes, I see Sierra’s face in that hospital room. The fear. The guilt that had no business being there.
Viktor did that to her.
I cross into Bratva territory, which is reckless as hell, but I don’t care. Viktor is laying low, hiding from me and the cops. He won’t leave his home turf.
No one talks.
Either they don’t know where he is, or they’re too scared to say. One guy spits at my feet when I mention Viktor’s name. Another just laughs and walks away.
My next step would be to grab some lower-level Bratva members and have a more persuasive conversation, but that’ll take planning.
I’m heading to the casino to check in when my phone rings.
“Santino?”
“Shaw came through. Got an address tied to that license plate.”
I used my contact at the police department to get the license plate number from the car that hit Julian. Shaw’s been running it down.
“Send it to me.”
“It’s deep in Bratva territory. You shouldn’t go alone.” A pause. “I’ll come with you. Pick me up at the casino.”
He hangs up before I can argue.
Fine. Backup isn’t the worst idea.
Santino’s waiting outside when I pull up. He’s old school. Gray hair, sharp eyes, suit and tie every day. He rolls his own cigarettes and doesn’t take shit from anyone.
I respect the hell out of him.
He slides into the passenger seat and pulls out a cigarette. “Mind if I smoke?”
“It’s your lungs.”
He lights one, cracks the window. The familiar smell fills the truck as he navigates us toward the address.
“How’s your mother doing?” he asks.
“Next treatment is Tuesday.”
