Logan’s heart ached. Not just for Adrian, but also for Tammi.
She had beenhismother. The only one who had stepped into that role, who had fought to love him, to make him hers. And now, in front ofeveryone, Alon had torn that down, had thrown it back at her as if it was nothing.
Logan gave Adrian’s hand a gentle squeeze, a small gesture, but one that tried to convey comfort, as if steadiness could be transferred through skin. Across the table, Aaron and Tammi shared a quiet, brief glance, the kind that said more than words ever could.
“I’ll go to him,” Aaron suggested, already starting to rise.
But Adrian raised a hand, stopping him before he could stand. “No.” His voice was quiet but firm. “I’ll go. This is long overdue.”
Aaron hesitated, but after a moment, he gave a small nod.
Logan met Adrian’s gaze, searching for something, for reassurance, hesitation, anything.
Adrian gave him a small, tired smile. “Be right back.”
Adrian jogged down the stairs; the stairwell felt longer than it used to, but even that small effort left him winded. His breath hitched, his ribs straining against the weight of his own body. He hated how the disease crept in during moments like this; the smallest reminders that he wasn’t who he used to be, that time and illness were stripping him down piece by piece. It was the ordinary moments that spoke the loudest.
But he pushed forward.
Alon was sitting at the foot of the stairs, back turned, a cigarette burning low between his fingers. His gaze was locked onto the Maserati, as if it heldall the answers to the rage simmering inside him. The smoke rose in thin spirals, catching the yellow porch light and twisting toward the dark.
Adrian lingered at the final step, torn between speaking up or retreating, feeling that it would be easier to declare defeat, endure the dinner, and move on.
But no, Alon was his brother. Adrian understood that beneath the harsh words and cruelty, there was something more profound.
Then, sharper than he intended, the words came out, in Hebrew, rough and raw. “What’s your problem?”
Alon didn’t move, didn’t flinch. The harsh tone rolled away from him. He took a long pull from the cigarette and exhaled through his nose, the sound edged with something between a laugh and a scoff.
“So now you smoke?” Adrian said, quieter now, stepping onto the pavement and standing directly in front of his young brother. “Since when?”
Alon’s shoulders shifted slightly, but his eyes stayed fixed ahead. “Up until a few days ago, you didn’t even have a car,” he muttered. “Now you show up in a Maserati?”
“It’s a rental.” Adrian crossed his arms. “Logan got it because he wanted the experience for a few days. That’s all.”
“Oh, so your rich boyfriend just happened to get you a Maserati? Just your rich boyfriend doing rich boyfriend shit,” Alon let out another humorless chuckle. “Man, you really don’t even hear yourself, do you?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Adrian stepped closer, frustration sharpening his voice. “I was taking the bus two days ago.”
Alon’s mouth twisted into a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Oh, yeah, right.” Alon took another drag, exhaled through his nose as he stood. “Always the perfect excuse. It’s never you, huh? It’s always something else—a coincidence, bad timing, someone else’s decision. Nothing’s ever really your fault, is it?”
Alon looked at him then, really looked, and for a second, just long enough to be real, the anger cracked. There was something else behind it. Something quieter. But it passed quickly, and the wall went up again.
“You don’t even know how easy it’s been for you,” he muttered, barely audible. “You’ve always had everything.”
Then, without breaking eye contact, Alon flicked the cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath his boot. His movements were intentional, almost theatrical, as if daring Adrian to react.
The muscle in Adrian’s jaw twitched. Patience slipped through him like seawater through rope, slow at first, then all at once. “What the hell is going on with you?”
Alon didn’t answer. He pulled another cigarette from the pack, lit it with a snap of his lighter, the brief flare casting shadows across his face.
Adrian stepped forward, voice rising. “Are you out of your mind? You just got into an elite unit, and you’re out here chain-smoking like nothing matters? Do you have any idea what kind of training is ahead of you? Cut that shit!”
Something in Alon’s expression shifted—a flash of something darker, deeper—and then it snapped.
“I’M NOT ONE OF YOUR SOLDIERS!” he exploded, the words ripping into the quiet night like a shot. He dropped the second cigarette to the ground and stepped on it. “So stop talking to me like I am! Stop giving me orders like you’ve always fucking done!”
Before Adrian could respond, Alon shoved him—hard. Adrian stumbled back a step, caught off guard, but his feet held. Instinct moved faster than thought, and a second later, he shoved back, his palms slamming against Alon’s torso.
