And now he’s looking at me like I should believe him. Like his words alone should be enough.
But I can’t tell if what he’s saying is the truth, or just another version of it.
Sokolov’s grin widens. “You hear that? He won’t deny it.” He leans forward as far as the restraints allow, blood dripping down his face. “Guess that tells you everything you need to know.”
My vision wavers. The warehouse tilts, and suddenly I can’t breathe. Every inhale feels like pins in my lungs.
Marco. The lies. The truth. The man standing beside me. The man tied to the chair.
It all spins like a sick carousel.
Enzo finally moves.
His hand slips inside his jacket. For a heartbeat, I think he’s going for a gun, but instead he produces a folded piece of paper. Opens it and holds it up so Sokolov can see.
“Prison transfer logs,” Enzo says. “Showing you personally arranged for Marco Moretti to be moved to a cell block controlled by the Bratva. The same Bratva who owed you a favor for helping them move stolen merchandise through my territory.”
Sokolov’s face goes blank. “Proof of nothing.” But there’s an uneasy edge to his voice now.
“Bank records showing payments from your offshore accounts to a corrections officer, and the amounts you sent tothe boys you hired to plant drugs in Marco's storage unit to frame him for trafficking.” Enzo folds the paper and tucks it away. “Should I go on?”
I want to believe him. God, I want to.
The evidence is there. Black and white, a trail that leads straight to Sokolov’s door. It should be enough to settle the sick churning in my gut and quiet the voice in my head that’s still whisperingwhat if.
What if the evidence is real, but incomplete? What if Enzo ordered the hit and Sokolov just carried it out? What if they’re both guilty, and I’m standing here like a fool, choosing to believe the one who fucks me over the one who’s about to die?
Sokolov must’ve seen the uncertainty play on my face, because his grin turns vicious. “Still not sure, are you?”
He shakes his head when I don’t respond. “Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t fucking matter because I’d do it again. That little shit was going to ruin everything. You know what he said to me when I told him to keep quiet?” His eyes find mine. “He said, ’I have a brother. I can’t be a coward and let him think that this is okay.’ Like he was some kind of fucking hero.”
The words hit like bullets. Marco. My Marco, who tried so hard to keep me safe, to keep me clean.
And just like that, the doubt doesn’t matter anymore. Maybe Enzo’s telling the truth. Maybe he’s not. Maybe I’ll never know for certain who gave the final order that put my brother in the ground.
But I know who carried it out. I know who arranged the transfer, who paid off the guards.
“I heard he cried,” Sokolov continues, watching my face. “When they started beating him. He called out for you, actually. ‘Luca,’ he kept saying. ‘Tell Luca I’m sorry.’ Sorry he couldn’t be there for you anymore—”
I’m on him before Enzo can stop me.
My fists connect with his face, his ribs, anywhere I can reach. The chair tips backward, and we go down together, me on top, hitting him over and over while he laughs through broken teeth.
“That’s it,” Sokolov gurgles. “Just like your brother. All that rage, nowhere to put it—”
I grab his throat and squeeze hard. Watch his good eye bulge as he struggles to breathe.
“He died scared,” I snarl into his face. “But you’re going to die knowing exactly what’s coming. Knowing that everything you built, everything you stole, it meant nothing. You lost.”
I let go. Sokolov gasps, coughing.
Firm hands land on my shoulders, pulling me back. I let them. Let Enzo haul me to my feet while Sokolov rolls onto his side.
“You think you won?” Sokolov spits blood. “You think killing me fixes anything? Your brother’s still dead. And you, you’re just Valerio’s whore now. Probably spreading your legs every night, letting him breed you like the bitch you are—”
The gun is in my hand before I register reaching into Enzo’s jacket for it. I don’t remember making the decision. Don’t remember anything except the weight of it and Sokolov’s face and six months of grief crystallizing into this single moment.
The gunshot is deafening in the enclosed space. Sokolov’s head snaps back. Blood and brain matter spray across the concrete behind him. His body twitches twice, then goes still.
