His jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn’t deny it.
And I go still.
Because suddenly the air feels thinner. Like my lungs remembered something my brain didn’t.
I slept with this man.
This man, who started taking lives before he could legally vote.
This man, who moves like violence is muscle memory.
Panic stirs low in my stomach, slow and creeping.
What the hell have I done?
“It wasn’t here,” Lev says. “Brighton Beach. Shitty winter. Igor gave him a gun and said if he wanted to keep his dad breathing, he needed to pull the trigger first.”
I swallow. “Your dad was Bratva?”
Anton nods once. “Low rank. Disposable. Got in trouble with a guy higher up. I cleaned it up.”
He says it like he’s talking about taking out the trash.
But it’s not. Not even close.
“First time I ever saw him cry,” Lev says quietly. “Didn’t even cry when his mom passed. But that night?”
Anton doesn’t look at Lev. Doesn’t say anything.
My chest feels tight.
Because it hits me—all of them, even the ones who joke too much or act like nothing gets through? They didn’t choose this life like picking a college major. They were born into it. Shoved into corners and taught to fight their way out.
Their choices weren’t black and white.
Just survival.
I glance at Anton. He’s watching me again.
And this time, I don’t look away.
“I’m… so sorry to hear that.”
For a beat, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
Then something shifts in his eyes. Not softness. Not gratitude.
Something colder. Harder.
Like I touched a bruise I wasn’t supposed to see.
He stands. Quietly. Slowly.
“I have things to do,” he says, voice low and final.
He doesn’t look at me when he adds, “Dima will take you back.”
He leaves without waiting for a response.
