She doesn’t even lift her head to look at me, her eyes fixed straight ahead. Her fingers tighten around the edge of a throw blanket, though, making my stomach twist. She looks sick or scared. I don’t know which is worse.
“Tell me who did this,” I demand. “Who hurt you?”
Her voice comes out so small I almost don’t hear it.
“You,” she says on a breath.
The word hits me like someone drove a blade straight between my ribs.
I sit frozen for a second, stunned. I don’t know how to process that. What could she possibly mean? I rack my brain, trying to remember anything I’ve done to hurt her or betray her. I come up with nothing.
She’s hollow and vacant, like she’s given up on me. I try to tamp down my frustration. I thought we were past all this. Apparently not.
When she finally moves, it’s only to shift the blanket enough for me to see the tablet resting beside her thigh. A news article glows across the screen. It’s open to a photo I know too well: Zahn. His crew. The bodies covered in blood on the pavement. The police tape. My own photograph is inset in the corner with a headline that names me as a suspect and then clears me halfway down the page.
It’s an old case, but a bloody one. It definitely wasn’t my proudest moment. Not by a long shot. I was doing what needed to be done, but I know she’ll need some time to come to terms with that. I try to approach it carefully.
“Molly,” I say quietly, trying to steady myself. “That article is over a year old.”
She still doesn’t look at me. She stares straight ahead, her gaze fixed on nothing. She keeps her voice level and cold.
“I don’t give a fuck about when it was written,” she says more sharply than I’ve ever heard her say anything. “I care about the content.”
I exhale slowly, trying to rein myself in. “Let me explain,” I tell her calmly.
“I already read the explanation,” she says, barely above a whisper. “I read the police reports. I read the analysis. I read the speculation. They were all killed the same way. They were all found in the same pattern. Everyone knows it was you.”
“They would have killed me first,” I fire back. “They were gunning for me and my men. Zahn tried to undermine my operations for months. He killed three of my guys before I retaliated.”
She flinches, but she takes great care to hide it.
I force my voice lower. “Just like everything in my line of work, it wasn’t personal. It was survival.”
She finally turns her head. Her eyes meet mine for only a moment, and that moment guts me. There is no warmth there. No fear either. Just a steady, numb disbelief.
“Is this what got Anya’s mom killed?”
My breath stops.
She says it as a realization rather than a question. It’s like a puzzle piece has snapped into place and she hates that it makes sense. For the first time in my life, I feel an overwhelming sense of shame.
I run a hand over my face and sit back slightly, not because I want distance, but because what I’m about to say deserves honesty that requires me to ground myself and speak from the heart.
“Her mother’s death was a retaliation for the Zahn crew,” I tell her slowly. “They were aiming for Davýd. They knew taking him out would hurt me more than anything. He’s my second-in-command and my best friend.”
She doesn’t respond. I’m not even sure if she hears me, but I press on anyway.
“When they got there, he wasn’t home. His wife, Lena, was. She was there with Anya and a few staff members.”
Molly stays perfectly still, but her breathing becomes more ragged, like she might start crying again.
“They broke the code,” I say. “Women and children are off limits. That’s the one rule every Bratva and every crew follows. Only soldiers live and die in this world. Only the ones who choose it.”
She keeps staring at the far wall like she can’t bear to look at me.
“Zahn’s people didn’t care about the code. They wanted blood for blood. They couldn’t get to Davýd, so they killed his wife instead.” I let out a breath. “She had nothing to do with the business. They gunned her down anyway. Anya was in the house when it happened.”
Her eyes squeeze shut.
