10 Days to Surrender (Ozerov Bratva #2)

13. Sasha

13

SASHA

Kosti is waiting by the fence when I finish my hundredth lap in the dark, a cigarette dangling from his laps. “You keep smoking a pack a day and you won’t make it to the end of these ten weeks,” I warn him as I approach, tucking my gun in the back of my pants.

“If lung cancer was going to kill me, it would’ve done it by now.” He exhales a perfect smoke ring. “Besides, what’s the worst that could happen? I die and leave you alone with your mess?”

“God fucking forbid.”

“That’s what I thought.” He laughs. “Focus on what’s trying to kill you, yeah? You’ve got enough problems of your own without worrying about me.”

I grunt and lean against the fence beside him. The metal is still warm from the day’s heat. “Problems I can handle. It’s solutions that get messy.”

“That’s because your solutions are limited to ‘shoot it, threaten it, or throw money at it until it goes away.’” He takes another long drag. “How’s that working out with my niece, eh?”

I glance up at the window. A glimpse of movement—Ariel pacing, one hand pressed to her spine.

“Third time she’s made that circuit,” Kosti observes. “You two really are perfect for each other. Both wearing holes in the floor instead of sleeping like normal people.”

“She needs rest. The doctor said?—”

“Oh, please tell me you’re about to march up there and order her to lie down.” His eyes crinkle with unholy glee. “I could use the entertainment. Maybe she’ll throw you out the window this time.”

“Fuck off.”

“Such gratitude. Here I am, sacrificing my peaceful retirement to help you unfuck your life?—”

“I didn’t ask for your help.”

“Would you have preferred to die in the snow?” He stubs out his cigarette and immediately lights another.

I clench my jaw. “Do you have a point to make, old man, or are you just enjoying the sound of your own voice?”

“My point is that you’re still playing pakhan with her. Everything’s an operation. A tactical maneuver. You’ve got your perimeter checks, your exit strategies, your?—”

“—because there are actual threats?—”

“—because it’s easier than admitting you’re terrified.” The amusement drops from his voice. “Easier than admitting that for the first time in your life, you can’t strong-arm your way to what you want.”

I scowl at the villa’s silhouette. “She’s the one treating this like a war.”

“Because you keep making it a battle, you idiot.” Kosti’s voice takes on that irritating know-it-all tone he gets sometimes. “You’re so focused on proving you can protect her that you forget to actually care for her.”

“I do care,” I growl. “Or at least, I would. If she’d fucking let me.”

“Oh, she’ll let you. You just have to know what to do.”

“I’m supposed to—what? Serenade her? Buy chocolates?”

Kosti barks a laugh. “God, no. She’d fling them at your head.” He rolls yet another cigarette between his fingers, contemplative. “When my Eleni left me—third year of our marriage, can you believe it?—I camped on her cousin’s porch for a week. Brought her koulouri every dawn. Fixed her father’s leaky roof.”

“And?”

“She called me ‘a cockroach who’d survive nuclear winter if he knew there was a buck in it for him.’” A grin cracks his weathered face. “Then she kissed me. Drew blood doing it, but still.”

I sigh and scrub my face with a hand. The old bastard loves his fucking parables. Six months of them is starting to wear on me. “What’s your point, Kosti?”

“My point is that love is a siege, not a shootout. You don’t storm the gates—you starve the doubts. Outlast the anger.” He tucks the cigarette behind his ear, suddenly solemn. “Stop fighting with her. Start fighting for her.”

“Fuck.” I pass the hand over my face once again. “How do I even start?”

“You grovel.” Kosti’s laugh is rough with smoke. “You beg. You prove to her that the man she fell in love with still exists beneath all that scar tissue.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then you become that man again.” He cracks his thick neck from side to side.

My lips twitch despite myself. “You’re an annoying old man, you know that?”

“And you’re a stubborn young fool.” He claps my shoulder. “But at least you’re finally asking the right questions.”