Just gone—like they’d never been ours.
The grief had been physical.
My sister stopped eating for three days.
She sat on the edge of her bed staring at the door as if sheer willpower would make them walk back through it. My little brother cried until he vomited, clutching the hem of Dario’s old sweatshirt like it was oxygen.
I wandered the empty rooms touching everything they’d left behind.
Dario’s dog-eared books, margins filled with notes in precise handwriting.
Ethan’s sketchpads—pages of cityscapes, battle strategies disguised as doodles, faces drawn in shadow and light.
Luca’s half-repaired motorcycle helmet.
Marco’s old boxing gloves.
Nico’s worn deck of cards.
Vito’s chessboard, pieces mid-game as if he’d planned to return.
I slept in Dario’s room that first night. Curled on his bed. Breathing in the faint scent of soap and cedar that hadn’t yet faded.
By the end of the week, Father had packed everything away.
“We need to move on,” he said.
We blamed him.
Blamed him for trading six boys like they were inconvenient furniture.
Blamed him for ripping our family down the middle.
I thought I would never see them again.
Then, two months ago, the prison gates opened.
The world outside was blinding — loud and overwhelming.
And there was Ruslan, standing before the gate.
I felt hopeless... until several high-end cars drove in.
Men with powerful auras stepped out — six of them.
My brothers.
The ones my father had separated from us twelve years ago.
Six tall figures, exuding danger and authority.
Twelve years had passed.
But I recognized them instantly.
Dario’s steady gaze—older now, harder, but still searching for me first.
Ethan’s quiet intensity.
