“You deserved better,” I said, voice low and certain. “You deserved someone who saw the truth before it was too late. You deserved a brother who paid attention instead of being too busy with his own shit to notice something was wrong.”
The guilt sat in my chest like a stone. Heavy. Permanent. The weight that didn't shift no matter how much time passed or how many times I came here and said the same things.
She'd called me two weeks before she died. Asked if I could come over for dinner, said she wanted to talk about something. I'd said I was busy, promised I'd come the following week.
There was no following week.
“I'm going to find out what really happened.” My throat tightened around the words. “Because you deserved better. You deserved justice that wasn't bought or manufactured or convenient. You deserved the truth.”
By the time I stood, I was soaked through. I placed my hand on the headstone. Cold stone beneath my palm. Solid. Permanent.
“I love you, Lil. I'm sorry I was too late.”
Too late to save her. Too late to see what was happening. Too late to be the brother she'd needed instead of the one who showed up after everything had already gone to hell.
“See you next week,” I said, like I always did. Like she was just away instead of gone.
I walked back to my car, rain soaking me, and sat in the driver's seat without starting the engine. My phone showed three messages from Adrian checking if I was all right. One from Troy asking about training. One from Dmitri with security footage from the wedding.
Dmitri
Found your mysterious guest. We need to talk.
I opened the attachment. The image was grainy, captured from a hallway camera, but clear enough. A man in a dark suit and black mask, walking away from the corridor where we'd collided.
His posture was wrong for a civilian. Too aware. Too controlled. The way he moved suggested training, discipline, the particular fluidity that came from knowing your body was a weapon.
I'd seen that bearing before. In mirrors. In Viktor. In the men Adrian kept close.
This man wasn't a guest. Wasn't someone who'd been invited because of connections or status.
He was hunting someone. Had to be. You didn't move through palace corridors with that kind of focus unless you were tracking a target.
I stared at the image, memorising details. About six foot. Lean. Trained. Movement like that doesn't unlearn itself. The way his shoulders sat suggested comfort with violence.
Who are you?
