Leonid’s Adam’s apple dips, slow and deliberate, as a nerve flicks along his neck. “He wanted me to survive.”
I lean back, crunching into the pickle, the sharp tang giving me something to focus on.
“So,” I say, trying to lighten the mood… not because I need to know him better or anything. “What’s this thing about your twin trying to kill you? Not enough room on the throne?”
The moment stretches taut again, Leonid’s gaze snapping to me. His neck shifts, veins rising subtly as he swallows hard. His hand hovers over the vodka glass for a second too long before he picks it up and takes a slow drink. “You don’t need to know.”
“Actually, I do,” I counter, my voice tight despite the sarcasm. “Enlighten me—since apparently almost killing me earlier wasn’t enough to make your point.”
Galina sighs, her hand still on his shoulder. “I promised your father I wouldn’t tell you,” she murmurs, the apology hanging between them like smoke. Her hand squeezes gently before pulling away. “But maybe I should have. It was… for your protection.”
Leonid shakes his head once, sharply. “Enough, Galina.”
But I’m not letting it go. “You’re not the only one with daddy issues,” I mutter, the words escaping before I can stop them. Both their eyes snap to me, and I suddenly feel the weight of their attention like a spotlight.
I push the empty pickle plate aside and settle into my seat, resting my elbows on the table.
“I didn’t know anything about my father or my brother running the New Orleans crime scene,” I say. “Not until the day Jake and I were hunted down. Not until the…fakeRaven put a bullet in him.”
The fucking memory weighs down on me like an anchor; I clench my jaw, fix my gaze on the table, and let the silence turn to a fucking funeral dirge.
“You can’t change the past,” Galina says finally. “Focus on the present. And on your son.”
“You think I don’t?” The words come out angrier than I intended, but I don’t apologize. “I’m going to find out who killed Jake. End of story.”
“Then what?” Leonid asks. His gaze is steady—no hint of teasing. Just something raw. “What happens after?”
“At least your brother’s still alive,” I snap, locking eyes with his. “Mine’s dead.”
Something shifts in his expression. His brow softens, eyes warming with what looks too much like understanding. Like fucking pity.
No.
My throat closes up, vision blurring.Goddammit, not now.I jerk my head away, blinking hard. He doesn’t get to see this. Doesn’t get to watch me crack like some broken thing that needs fixing.
Weak. Pathetic. Jake would’ve—
In my head, I see it clear as day—like I have every night for fourteen years. A bullet through the killer’s head, then another through his heart. Simple. Clean. The way Jake’s death wasn’t. The way I’ve planned since I was fifteen, screaming myself hoarse in the woods.
Suddenly, all I see is red.
I thought having Elijah would soften the edges. Dull the pain. Maybe even give me something new to hold on to.It does.But right now, with their eyes on me, it feels like I’m back in that moment—raw, bleeding, and ready to destroy everything in my path.
That day in the woods, I stopped being a kid. Started being a weapon. Now all I’ve got left is this—find out who took the only person who ever loved me.
28
Leonid
A few hours later
The empty vodka bottles mock me.
Three… no, five of them stand like guilty witnesses to this disaster of an evening. The street lamps outside cast long shadows through Katerina’s windows, and somewhere, a clock chimes. Almost midnight.
I watch Clara from across the room. That raw hurt from earlier—gone. Buried beneath steel and vodka and sharp edges that could cut a man open. Always the survivor, this one. Makes me want to—
No. Focus.
