Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t pull away. “You can’t protect me from him,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “No-one can.”
I lean in, lowering my voice so only she can hear. “Watch me.”
Her eyes search mine, and for a fleeting moment, something stirs there—hope, maybe, or something close to it. She doesn’t say a word, but she doesn’t pull away either.
I’m not sure when it happened—when I started caring so much, started giving a damn about what happens to her. But I do. I care more than I should, enough to want to shield her from everything threatening to crush her. Even if it’s for my own selfish reasons. I shove those feelings down, forcing them into the shadows, as her gaze drops to my hand gripping her arm. The realization makes my chest tighten, and I let her go.
She turns and walks out of the war room, and I can’t help but watch her leave. The weight of her secrets lingers in the air between us, heavy and suffocating. Whatever Aslanov did to her—whatever role Teskin plays in this—I’ll be the one to put an end to it.
“She has secrets.”My voice is sharper than I intend, the frustration bleeding through despite my effort to stay calm.
Scar looks up from the glass of whiskey in his hand, his dark eyes meeting mine with the kind of unflinching intensity that only he can manage. “Everyone has secrets,” he says, his tone cool but deliberate. The way he holds my gaze for an extra beat feels like a challenge—one meant to remind me I’m no exception.
I shift on my feet, heat rising to my face. “But hers are eating her alive, Scar. Whatever’s in her past, it’s not staying there. It’s clawing its way into the present. How am I supposed to help her if she won’t tell me what’s going on?”
Scar sets the glass down, the faint clink punctuating the space between us. “You can’t force someone to share their wounds, Rafi.” He leans back, steepling his fingers as if weighing his next words carefully. “If she’s keeping something from you, there’s a reason. Maybe it’s shame. Maybe it’s fear. Or maybe it’s none of your damn business.” His tone sharpens just enough to make the point sting. “And let me remind you—she owes you nothing.”
The words hit harder than I expect, and my jaw tightens as I look away, focusing on the bookshelf behind him. I know that she doesn’t owe me anything. We share a common enemy and a common goal, and not much else. Except maybe the feel of her skin against mine.
Scar’s lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, I see the faintest flicker of understanding in his expression. But then he lifts his eyebrows, a warning look that’s all too familiar. “Careful,” he says, his voice softer now but no less commanding. “You’re walking a dangerous line, brother. Don’t fool yourself into thinking this is just about her.”
I swallow hard, my heart thudding against my ribcage. “There’s nothing going on between us,” I say quickly. Maybe too quickly. “I’ve told you that.”
Scar smirks, but there’s no humor in it. “You can keep saying it if it helps you sleep at night. But we both know the truth has a way of catching up with us, Rafi. Even when we’re not ready for it.”
The weight of his words lingers long after he leaves the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts—and the chaos threatening to chew me up then spit me out again.
30
TAYANA
The men who attacked my shelter belong to Vasili Teskin. The man from Seattle, the one they call The Jekyll, was able to identify the logo and confirm it through his contacts. The man is so information-rich, I’m pretty sure if we asked him where Igor is, he could probably draw us a map. Rafi tells me The Jekyll runs Seattle alongside Dante Accardi, the big man himself, and I can see why he’s such an asset.
“Do they come here often?” I ask, glancing at Rafi as we stroll through the vibrant gardens that weave between their homes. The four brothers have each built their houses on the same sprawling block of land, positioned at the corners of an invisible square. At the center of the property stands a grand gazebo, its elegant structure encircled by lush greenery. The gazebo boasts ample seating, perfect for hosting an intimate gathering, with flower-lined paths radiating outward to connect it seamlessly to each of the homes.
“Last time they were here was about four months ago; they came to sort out the problem with the Vicci family and stayed for Brando and Mia’s wedding.”
“Ah,” I smile knowingly “the wedding to end all weddings.”
“It was an event to remember, will definitely go down in the Gatti history books.”
“You have a beautiful family, Rafi. You’re lucky to have them.”
He nods in agreement, and I catch the warmth in his eyes, the unmistakable love that surfaces whenever he talks about them. Even the playful banter and friendly rivalry with Lucky—it’s the unspoken language of siblings, where teasing and laughter become their way of expressing what words often can’t.
“You don’t have any siblings?” he asks.
I’m sure he already knows the answer, but for some reason, he feels compelled to ask. I draw in a deep breath, releasing it in a sigh before answering, “No, I’m an only child.” I don’t add how much I wish that weren’t the case—because I’m not sure I could bear the thought of another child enduring what I went through.
“And how often do you go back to Russia?”
“I don’t.”
His brows pull together in a frown. “Never?”
I shake my head. “I’ve been here for seven years. I don’t have any plans to go back.”
His eyes narrow slightly, their intensity sharpening as he studies me. It’s as though he’s trying to peel back layers, searching for the hidden story behind my words. His silence feels heavy, his gaze unrelenting, as if he’s hoping I’ll fill the quiet with an explanation I’m not ready to give.
