Yulian seems to read my mind. “We’re striving for full automation. Fewer accidents that way.”
“Are we talking smudged edges or limbs crushed under the presses?”
“Both.”
The way he says it makes a chill run down my spine. So business-like. So… cold.
And yet, at the same time, I realize that can’t be all there is. Because who would care enough about maimed Bratva grunts to actually tweak things to prevent it? Why invest in state-of-the-art machinery like this instead of cutting corners unless you actually gave a shit?
Unless you actuallycared?
“Is this why you’re running StarTech?” It’s a hunch, a wild guess, nothing more. “Because you’re concerned with… safety?”
He doesn’t meet my gaze. “Every Bratva needs a good cover.”
“Not this good. Not with a CEO dropping by every day to check on his prototypes.”
“If the CEO isn’t involved with his company, the company won’t stay profitable for long.”
“Would it matter?” I point with my thumb towards the piles of fake money. “It’s not like you need it to be.”
His throat works. I can tell I’ve hit the nail on the head, but also that he wishes I hadn’t. That whatever secret I’ve stumbled upon isn’t one he intended to share. Not tonight. Perhaps not ever.
Eventually, he exhales. “You’re a nosy little thing, you know that?”
“Got it on a bumper sticker.”
“Of course you do.” His lip twitches, but only for a moment. “I lost people.”
It’s just three words, but they hit like bullets. “Soldiers?”
He shakes his head. “No. That comes with the territory. The ones I’ve lost—they shouldn’t have been targeted to begin with. At least two of them were completely innocent. And those who weren’t…” a sharp intake of breath. “They still shouldn’t have been killed that night.”
Finally, realization dawns upon me. I’ve held the hands of too many people in waiting rooms not to recognize the sadness in Yulian’s eyes.
“Your family,” I whisper.
He doesn’t deny it. “They were after me. Instead, they got them. My parents, my sister.” His fist clenches and unclenches, as if trying to squeeze out the emotions like bad blood from a wound.
For a man like Yulian Lozhkin, there is no worse infection than a beating heart.
“My best friend, too. Kira. She had nothing to do with our family, but she took a bullet for me anyway.”
“Why?”
“They thought she was going to be my fiancée.” A cold, bitter laugh. “They didn’t know the first thing about her. We were like siblings. And she never would have let herself be tied down by marriage. Not to me, not to anyone.”
He thinks it’s his fault. He thinks he’s why they died.
A lump settles in my throat, but I force myself to swallow it. This isn’t my pain. This isn’t my guilt. No matter how familiar it feels, how white-hot and burning, it’s nothing compared to what I’ve gone through. I onlythoughtI’d lost my child—but to actually lose him? To lose the only family I’ve got left, and feel like I was responsible?
I’d never feel at peace again. Not as long as I was alive.
“I’m sorry.” It’s the only thing I can think to say. The only thing worth saying in the face of all this pain. I knew Yulian had no family—I had no idea he’d lost them so violently. “You shouldn’t have had to go through that. It was unfair.”
“Life’s unfair.”
“It didn’t have to be. Not for you.”
