“Is she? Because the woman in that room lost her father, her brother, her family, her entire identity in the space of a singlenight. She’s inherited an organization built on the corpse of the man who raised her. She’s become something she never wanted to be because the alternative was death.” His eyes harden. “So no, Rafael. She’s not still the same person. And neither are you.”
I want to argue with him, want to insist that love doesn’t change just because circumstances do. But looking at Nicolai’s face—exhausted, grief-stricken, older than his thirty-one years—I realize he’s right.
None of us are the same people we were two weeks ago.
“How long?” I ask.
“I don’t know. However long it takes.”
“And if it takes forever?”
“Then you learn to live with the consequences of the choices you made.”
The dismissal is gentle but absolute. I stand in the hallway for several minutes after he disappears back into Kira’s room, staring at the closed door and fighting the urge to break it down.
Instead, I do what I’ve been doing for two weeks.
I walk away.
Versace nightclub, Manhattan. 11:47 PM.
The bass line thrums through my chest like a second heartbeat as I nurse my fourth Scotch at Luca’s private table. The VIP section provides perfect isolation from the chaos below—writhing bodies, pulsing lights, the kind of desperate hedonism that makes grief temporarily manageable.
“You look like shit,” Luca observes, sliding into the booth beside me with his usual graceful ease. “When’s the last time you showered? Or slept? Or did anything other than stare at the bottom of a glass?”
“Tuesday,” I mumble, though I’m not sure what day it is now.
“Tuesday was ten days ago.”
“Then longer than that.”
Luca signals the waitress for another round, his expression shifting from amused to concerned. In the strobing lights, he looks younger than his thirty-one years—all tousled hair and expensive clothes, the eternal playboy who somehow always knows exactly what to say.
“Talk to me, fratello. What’s eating you alive?”
I drain my glass, welcoming the burn that momentarily distracts from the ache in my chest. “I killed her father.”
“Yeah, I heard. Congratulations on saving your fiancée’s life.”
“She won’t see me.” The admission comes out rougher than intended. “Won’t talk to me. Won’t even let me in the same room as her.”
“How long has it been?”
“Two weeks.”
“Two weeks since you prevented her from being murdered by her own blood, and she’s punishing you for it?” Luca’s tone carries genuine incredulity. “That’s fucked up, even for a Bratva princess.”
“It’s not punishment. It’s...” I search for the right words. “It’s processing. According to Nicolai.”
“Ah, the middle brother. The one who thinks everything can be solved through careful analysis and strategic planning.”
“Something like that.”
The waitress returns with fresh drinks, and I immediately reach for mine. Alcohol doesn’t solve problems, but it makes them temporarily easier to ignore.
“Let me ask you something,” Luca continues, settling back in his seat. “When you pulled that trigger, what was going through your mind?”
“That he was about to kill the woman I love, and I couldn’t let that happen.”
