My chest tightened. Of course. Our park. From before the training, before the family swallowed us whole, before everything got hard.
“Two o’clock. Thursday.”
“I’ll be there.”
Now we’re here. Ashland Park. Not a grand destination, just a neighborhood park on the South Side. Maple trees flare red at their edges, the first warning of autumn’s approach. The ground is still green but littered with early-fallen leaves that crunch underfoot. The basketball court’s rims are still bent. The playground equipment groans in the wind, metal on metal, like a knife being sharpened.
This park is neutral territory. Neither Rosetti nor Volkov. But neutral doesn’t mean safe. Too many sight lines, too many places for shooters. Meeting here breaks every protocol I’ve ever learned.
The walking path circles a pond where ducks still paddle, though fewer than in summer. The air has that particular earlyOctober bite—not winter’s assault but its first scout, Chicago’s early warning system.
I lead Marisol to the bench by the pond. She sits. I can’t because the nervous energy is foreign to me. I’ve walked into firefights calmer than this. My Glock presses against my ribs, a reminder that family reunions in our world sometimes end in bloodshed.
“Tell me about her,” Marisol says. Not pushing, just offering space.
My jaw clenches. The words feel like betrayal in my mouth. Family business stays in the family. But Marisol isn’t just anyone anymore.
I tell her things I’ve never told anyone, looking away as vulnerability scrapes my throat raw. Sofia at six, bossing me around this very playground, a gap-toothed smile and absolutely no fear. Sofia at ten, the first time our father put a gun in her hand. The betrayal on her face like he’d handed her a live snake. Sofia at twelve, when I started teaching her how to kill. Then at fifteen, after the massacre, when she started to take killing seriously.
Sofia five weeks ago, the night she left. The doorway. Alexei walking her to the car. Marco’s ultimatum still ringing in the air: him or us.
She chose him. And I don’t blame her.
“Marco won’t forgive her,” I tell Marisol. “The Volkov feud goes back generations. His father massacred our family. For Sofia to choose Alexei—”
“It’s not about the feud,” Marisol says quietly. “It’s about control. She chose something he didn’t sanction.”
She’s right. Marco could end the feud if he wanted. Alexei himself took no part in the massacre. The real offense is that Sofia made her own decision.
“But you’re not Marco,” she continues. “You stayed in touch.”
“Texts. Short calls when I knew he wouldn’t find out.” I scrub a hand over my face. “It’s not enough. She’s my sister. I trained her. I’m the one who taught her to survive, and then when she used that training to build a life Marco didn’t approve of, I let him put distance between us.”
Marisol watches the ducks on the pond. “She knows you love her.”
“Knowing isn’t the same as feeling it.”
“No,” she agrees. “It’s not.”
Two o’clock approaches. I check sight lines again. Minimal cover if shooting starts. No messages from Sofia. No cancellation. She’s coming.
Marisol shivers in the autumn chill. I put my arm around her. She tucks against me.
“What if she’s different?” The question escapes before I can stop it.
“She will be. That’s what love does.” Marisol squeezes my hand. “The question is whether you can accept the version of her that’s happy.”
A jogger passes too close to our bench. My body shifts automatically, putting myself between him and my woman. Old habits.
A figure appears at the far end of the path.
She’s different. Of course she’s different. It’s only been five weeks, but the difference is already visible.
Sofia moves differently. Less like a fashion model, more like a person actually living. Her hair is longer, loose around her face instead of swept up in a chignon. She’s wearing a tailored coat, probably bespoke, and boots that have actually seen weather. Of course she still manages to look elegant, as though elegance is in her DNA.
She looks softer. Dangerous in a different way now. Not weak, never that. But the rigid edges I remember have been worn smooth. She looks like someone who’s been loved well.
Sofia with a Volkov. The irony isn’t lost. The Bratva prince who stole Sofia despite knowing it meant war. Their love story has cost both families. I killed three of his men two years ago. He probably knows.
