I sit in the shitty plastic chair beside his hospital bed, nails digging into the edge like I need the pain to keep me upright. Roman’s chest rises and falls beneath the bandages. I count each breath, terrified I’ll miss the one where it stops.
They say his chances are good.
But I don’t trust them.
I don’t trust hope.
The door creaks open, the sound ripping through my thoughts and rousing Roman from his shallow sleep. He refused morphine, wanted nothing to dull the edge, so he’s fully awake even as pain keeps him in a permanent wince.
I want to climb into the bed and take his place. Bleed for him. Break for him.
It would still never balance the scales.
Because he gave me more than revenge.
He gave me this: a world where the men who ruined my sister are dead, because the man I love refused to stop breathing until they were. A world where I can finally turn her picture around and bear to look into her eyes.
Tears prickle the corners of my eyes, even though I’ve cried enough tonight to last me a year at least. When I thought Roman was dead—oh, god. The way I screamed, like it was me dying from a knife wound to the gut.
Because I knew, with brutal certainty, that there would be no me without him.
He is the ground, the sky, everything in between. The gravity keeping all my cells together.
Afanasy steps inside, all quiet menace and disarming charm. He’s dressed in black, sharp and composed, blue eyes that sting like chlorine.
“Well, well, well,” he begins, as unbothered as if Pavel was a rabid dog that had to be put down, not his brother. “You two held up your end of the deal. Pavel’s dead, and the empire is cracked open.”
But the victory feels strained, like glass under pressure.
“What about the others?” Roman asks, and a low dread wisps through me. The other brothers.
Ilya and Vladimir, right?
Afanasy’s expression shifts slightly, a glimmer of something like regret. Or, dare I say it, humanity?
“My brothers are fighting over the scraps,” Afanasy says. “Back home in Russia. Once they settle the score with each other, the winner will come for me.”
“Desperate men can be dangerous.”
He shrugs, dismissive, but the words cast a shadow over the bright, sterile room.
“I’ll handle them,” he says. “It’s my family’s fallout, not yours. You two should savor your win while you can.”
“While we can?” I echo, my voice sharper than I mean it to be. I want to believe this is the end, but it doesn’t feel like one. “Isn’t Roman’s debt to you paid?”
Afanasy and Roman just stare at each other in silent conversation, cutting me out as much as if they were speaking Russian.
“He was never indebted to me,” Afanasy finally says, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s in on some private joke. “But life’s strange. You never know what’s coming.”
Then, like he’s changing the subject, “If you know a good lawyer, tell me. I don’t plan to die like Pasha did, messy and unprotected.”
“Maybe try Yelp,” I scoff. The next thing he says is a question to Roman.
I hearRomochkaandlyubov, and I recognize that word.Love.
Roman’s ears turn red. He gives a quick shake of his head but doesn’t respond. Which, it seems, is its own response, because Afanasy laughs as he turns, leaving an icy chill in his wake.
The room sinks back into silence, the soft beeping of the monitors ticking time beside my pulse. I glance at Roman and wonder what he’s not telling me.
