“And the Bratva didn’t know.”
“Some of the men did. Enough of them, anyway.” I swallow once, hard. “Enough that when I started talking, they listened.”
She studies me for a second. “You started a revolt.”
“I started a war.”
The words settle between us.
I drag a hand over my face. Dirt. Sweat. The metallic trace of old blood. “I thought I was doing the right thing. Thought I was going to take over, clean it out, run it the way it should’ve been run. I thought I was going to tear him down in one night.”
Ayla says nothing. Just watches me, her hand landing on my chest.
“I killed most of his men before I even got to him.” My voice goes flatter, colder, the way it always does when I touch that part of myself. “Guns first. Then knives. Then my bare hands. Broke throats. Punched out teeth.”
Her fingers shift against my chest, barely there.
“When I finally got close enough,” I say, “that fucker shot me in the back.”
Ayla winces.
“I still went for him.”
“Of course you did.”
A breath of something almost like laughter leaves me. “He shot me again. Front this time.”
She makes a face. “That part’s not funny.”
“No.” I stare at the moon through the trees. “What came after almost is.”
Her mouth tightens. “Worse than getting shot by your own father?”
“He had me committed.”
She jerks upright. “What?”
“To a psychiatric hospital in Russia.”
The words land hard. I can feel it in the silence after.
Ayla just stares at me for a second. “Fuck.”
I nod once.
“How long?”
“Two years.”
“Only two?”
I turn my head and look at her.
She lifts one shoulder. “I’m sorry, but based on everything I know about you, I expected worse.”
Despite myself, I bark out a laugh.
“There she is,” I mutter.
