Page 61 of Fake Dating the Mafia Boss
I built a fortress to keep her safe, filled it with the one danger my walls couldn’t stop, then shut the door on the only person who could see it.
I don’t remember deciding to find him. I just become a thing moving through the house, and the men get out of my way, because whatever is on me now is something they’ve only heard about in stories.
He’s in the study. He doesn’t run. That’s the first thing, the thing that confirms all of it past any hope, that when I come through the door with murder on me he just sets down his glass and looks at me, calm, almost relieved. He looks like he’s been carrying a weight for a very long time and is glad to put it down at last. There’s a packed bag by the desk. A small one, a toothbrush bag, the bag of a man who knew that whatever came through this door tonight, he wasn’t going to need much on the other side of it.
“She worked it out,” he says. “The girl. I wondered if she would.”
“Where is she?” My voice doesn’t sound like a voice. “Where did you send her, Vadim?”
“You should sit.” He’s so calm. There’s a drink poured for me on the desk. The good vodka, not his own brand. Even now, hosting. Even now, correct. Thirty years of the loyal old soldier, and underneath it this, this terrible stillness, a man at the end of a long road. “We’re going to talk first. We’re long overdue.”
“Where is she?”
“You killed him.” He says it quietly, and it stops me dead, because it’s older than an accusation, a wound he’s been dressing in private for years. “Kostya. You killed your brother to take the throne. You’ve let me stand at your right hand and call you Pakhan for years while I knew it. So no, Seva. You don’t get to come in here roaring about a woman. Not from me. I’ve earned this conversation. I’ve paid for it.”
And there it is. The thing under everything. The rot in him that Cynthia saw and I couldn’t, finally out in the open. It’s so much worse than treason, because it’s grief. He didn’t sell us for money or power. He sold us because he has believed, for years, that I murdered the boy we both loved.
I should lie. Every instinct I have, every instinct that has kept this secret buried for a decade and built an empire on top of it to hold it down, screams at me to lie, to deny it, to give him the same story I’ve given everyone since that day. The enemy did it. We lost him in the firefight. I carried his body out.
I don’t lie. For the first time in ten years, standing in a study with my brother’s best friend who has burned my whole world down out of grief for him, I tell the truth, because the woman who’s carrying my child is somewhere in the dark because of this lie, and I am done letting it cost the people I love.
“It was my bullet,” I say.
Vadim goes still.
“It was an ambush. You weren’t there, you were across the city, you only ever heard the after. It was close quarters, dark, all muzzle flash, smoke, bodies. They came at us from two sides. Kostya moved when I fired. He moved into it. One second he was clear, the next he was in the line, and it was already done, done before I understood my own hand had done it.”
My voice is steady. I don’t know how it’s steady. I have never said these words out loud, not once, not to my grandmother, not to God. They come out of me flat and final, like reading a sentence off a page. “It was the worst second of my life. It is the worst second of every life I’ve lived since. I have replayed itten thousand times. It ends the same way every time, with my brother on the ground and my gun warm in my hand.”
“You’re lying.” But his voice has cracked. “You took the throne. You took everything that was his.”
“I let everyone believe the enemy did it because I could not survive them knowing. You’re right that I took the throne. I took it because I couldn’t give the family a grieving wreck who’d shot his own brother, so I gave them a pakhan instead, and I built all of this, every bit of it, as the longest apology a man can make to a dead boy who can’t hear it.”
I take a step toward him. “I didn’t murder him, Vadim. I loved him more than I have ever loved anything until very recently. I killed him by accident. I have been dying of it quietly every day since, while you spent those same years deciding it was murder, because you needed somewhere to put what losing him did to you. I understand that. God help me, I even forgive it. But you have to tell me where she is.”
For one moment, one single moment, I think it reaches him. I watch something move behind his eyes, the boy he was, the three of us in the old courtyard, the possibility that he’s spent years hating me for a crime that was only ever the worst grief of my life.
Then it closes. He chooses. I watch him choose, in real time, the hate over the truth, because the hate is all he has left and the truth would mean he burned everything down for nothing.
“No,” he says softly. “No.You’re saying it to save her. You’d say anything now.” His face hardens back into the thing Cynthia saw. “It’s a good story, Seva. But I’ve lived inside the other one too long to give it up for your convenience.”
It comes too late. I see that in the same instant he says it. Ten years I rehearsed never saying it. I never once rehearsed saying it and having it bounce. The truth I’ve carried for ten years, the thing I could never say, finally out of my mouth, and it falls into a man too far gone to catch it.
He has built his whole life on my guilt the way I built mine on penance, and neither of us can put the foundation back now. Whatever might have been saved between us died years ago, in a firefight he wasn’t even present for. There is no version of the next ten minutes where he and I walk out of this room both alive.
So I stop trying to save him. I save her instead.
What happens next isn’t gentle. He goes for the gun in his desk. He’s fast, even now, the man who taught me, but I have been faster than everyone for a long time, and tonight I am made of something that does not lose. There’s violence. It’s brief. It’s ugly. It ends with him on the floor of the study, me over him, the certainty in both of us that there was only ever one way this was going to end.
He’s going. I can see it. I take fistfuls of his shirt, I make him look at me, because I need the one thing only he can give me before he’s gone.
“The property,” I tell him. “Where they took her. You owe the family one true thing before you go. Give me that, and I’ll let you believe whatever you want about Kostya. Where is she, Vadim?”
And maybe it’s the last of the old loyalty, the boy underneath the traitor, or maybe it’s just that a dying man has no more reason to lie. He tells me. A name. One of Morozov’s holdings out past the edge of the city, a property I know, a cold institutional place I’d half forgotten he owned. He gives me the name, his eyes alreadygoing far away, and I can’t even be sure as he says it whether it’s the truth or the last cruelty of a man who wants me raiding the wrong building all night while she dies in another.
Then he’s gone. Vadim Reznik, my brother’s best friend, the third boy in every good memory I have, dead on the floor of my study, and he died believing I murdered Kostya, because I couldn’t make the truth reach him in time.
I kneel there for a moment with the truth finally spoken aloud and no one left alive who believes it. My grandmother doesn’t know. Cynthia doesn’t know. The one man who needed it died hating me for the lack of it. I said the unsayable thing at last, and the room is empty of everyone it was meant for. There is just me, a body, a decade of silence that bought me nothing.
