“Dima says Anton’s scared.” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “Says he’s never loved anyone.”
Gordo’s ears flick forward. Listening. Or maybe just pretending to.
“Love,” I repeat, bitter. The word feels wrong in my mouth, like I don’t have the right to say it. “That’s what he said. Love.”
The cat chirps—actually chirps—like he’s mocking me.
“I know, right? Anton Malikov doesn’tlove. He doesn’t even like. He fucks. He orders. He makes you feel like nothing and then somehow makes you want more anyway.” My throat tightens. “He doesn’t look at me like I’m someone to keep. He looks at me like I’m already temporary.”
Dima’s words won’t stop echoing.You matter to him. More than he knows how to handle.
My eyes sting. I press my cheek against Gordo’s fur, breathing in the dusty, warm smell of cat.
“What if he’s right?” My voice cracks. “What if Anton actually—?”
I can’t finish it. Can’t even let myself say it out loud. The idea is too dangerous. Too stupid.
Gordo yawns in my face, showing his pink tongue and sharp little teeth. Then he tucks his paws under himself and closes his eyes. Purr steady. Like none of this matters.
“Yeah. Conversation over,” I mutter.
But the echo of Dima’s voice won’t shut up. And the worst part? Some small, desperate part of me wants to believe him.
25
Anton
Two days.That’s how long it’s been since she ran from me with tears on her face. I’ve kept myself buried in work since—numbers, calls, anything to keep from seeing her eyes in my head.
It doesn’t matter. The image sticks anyway.
Now it’s Wednesday night, and I’m exactly where I don’t want to be.
“Bratishka, I’m glad you came tonight.”
The voice is thick with vodka and smoke, carried over the bass thump of a club that should have closed three hours ago. Instead, it pulses with red lights and half-naked women moving slow and bored on poles, more for atmosphere than attention.
The place isn’t ours. Too clean, too American. Belongs to a hotel investor named Mikhail Rudenko, one of the Old Guard who’s been laundering casino money since the Vetrov Bratva first bought its way into Vegas. Gold watch flashing, shirt open at the collar, Mikhail hugs me like we’re family. We’re not.
“You’re late,” he says, teeth too white. “But I forgive you. Sit, sit. We drink.”
I drop into the booth. Leather sticks to my shirt. Dima and Lev slide in on either side, their eyes already scanning the room.
Mikhail signals a girl in sequins to bring bottles. Beluga vodka, neat. Too much ice in the glasses.
“To friends,” Mikhail toasts, “and to aPakhanwho still breathes.”
I lift my glass but don’t drink. My jaw tightens. Everyone’s thinking the same thing: Igor’s slipping. The old man’s paranoia has gone from whispered insult to open concern. He favors Timofey more each day, handing him pieces of the empire like test gifts. Everyone here knows Timofey’s ambition is bigger than his loyalty.
And still, they invite me. Which tells me what they want: reassurance. Maybe more.
Lev leans back, smirk curving. “Funny thing about loyalty,” he says, picking up a handful of peanuts from the bowl. “You can’t drink it, can’t fuck it, can’t buy it. But you sure as hell noticewhen it’s gone.” He crunches loud enough to make Mikhail wince.
Dima says nothing, just watches the room. Always the quiet one, always cataloging threats.
My phone buzzes once in my pocket. I don’t take it out. I know it’s not her. Mary barely looks at me these days, not since Monday night. She trains with Dima, she eats without me, she goes to her bank job looking like her soul got dragged across asphalt. I did that. I remind myself it’s for the best. Distance keeps her alive. Keeps me sharp.
Still, the thought of her spending mornings with Dima instead of me makes something ugly coil in my chest. Like we’re in a relationship. Like I have the right to be jealous.I don’t.
