4. Anton
CHAPTER 4
ANTON
LATER THAT MORNING – WORKING OUT MY GUILT
A s I left Marcie’s place, I drove home with a heavy heart, knowing I should have explained why I kept her at arm’s length. The look in her eyes—wounded and raw—lingered in my mind.
Maybe it’s not about you. Maybe it’s about me , I’d told her, tossing out the cryptic line like it was supposed to make sense. Why couldn’t I bring myself to share the fears that gnawed at me in the dark?
Sitting in my car outside my apartment, I closed my eyes, guilt washing over me with an intensity that threatened to drown me. None of my friends understood why I avoided relationships, why I kept my distance. Only a few knew about my past engagement—and even then, it was just the handful I’d served with. When my fiancée died, it was one heartbreak too many, teaching me that when you loved someone, they inevitably left. Each time, you had to pick up the broken pieces and keep moving forward, no matter how much it hurt. And I didn’t think I could do that again.
A tight knot formed in my stomach as the thought settled in. I couldn’t risk losing anyone else, not like that. It was hard enough loving the guys who were like family to me, worrying about their lives as Bratva men. I’d learned to love them as brothers while growing up, and there was no turning back from that. But I could avoid caring too much about anyone else—loving anyone else.
There’s a saying that your past defines you, and the scars on my heart were proof of that. I’d built walls around myself, convinced that distance was my only shield. But Marcie had shaken those walls to their very foundations, leaving me with a choice—to let her break through or to shore them up permanently. Keeping her out might protect my heart, but it might also be the very thing that finally broke it.
The frustration that had been simmering beneath the surface began to claw its way up, ready to spill over. My body itched for movement, for something to distract from the storm in my mind. Grabbing the bag I kept in my boot, I headed inside to the basement gym, hoping a workout might stop my mind from spiralling into the past—but knowing it was already too late.
Life had dealt me blow after blow, loss after loss—first Mum died when I was a kid, then Dad drowned his grief in drink, leaving Louisa and me to fend for ourselves. Then I lost her, and finally my fiancée. Each loss left a scar that never fully healed, a reminder of my failure to protect the people I loved. And maybe that’s why I couldn’t let anyone close—because if I couldn’t protect them, then I didn’t deserve them. Maybe it wasn’t just about keeping my heart safe, but about not believing I was worthy of love at all. Not when I’d failed every person who had ever trusted me with their heart.
After changing into my workout gear, I jumped on the treadmill, stuffing earbuds in, and blasted heavy metal in an attempt to drown out the memories. I hit the treadmill’s speed, forcing my legs to match the faster pace. The burn in my muscles intensified as I pushed harder, trying to outrun the ghosts that never seemed to leave me. But no matter how fast I ran, I couldn’t escape the past.
When I was seven, Mum had taken Louisa and me to the park. On the drive home, I’d begged for ice cream, and Mum said no. In anger, I started to annoy Louisa, Mum glanced back in the mirror about to scold me, and that’s when it happened—a drunk driver ploughed into us. Mum died on impact. Louisa had a broken arm and a head injury, but she recovered. I survived without a scratch, but I couldn’t shake the thought that if Mum hadn’t looked back, maybe things would have been different.
My chest tight from both the workout and the memories crashing over me, I jumped off the treadmill. Running wasn’t enough to burn off the anger surging through me. I needed to hit something. Grabbing my gloves, I headed straight for the punching bag. Each hit was a release of frustration, the bag swaying with every blow. I couldn’t let my frustration out any other way. But even that couldn’t stop the painful memories that pounded through me just as relentlessly as I pounded the bag.
Images of Mum, Louisa, my fiancée—flooded back as my fists connected with the bag, the sound of leather squealing under each punch almost drowning out the voices in my head. Almost. But not quite.
When Mum died, Dad couldn’t cope. He turned to the bottle, neglecting Louisa and me, though he was never abusive. As her older brother, I took on the responsibility for both of us. Thankfully, Ash’s family helped, and Louisa and I spent a lot of time with the Rominovs. Without them, life would’ve been much harder.
Ash, Miki, Marko, Romi, Luca and I created the Bratva Blood Brothers pact. We cut our fingers and merged our blood, pledging to protect each other, our families, and especially our sisters. They thought I didn’t know they only really did it for my benefit—mine and Louisa’s. But whenever we needed anything—whether it was extra food, new clothes, school supplies, or birthday and Christmas presents—the Rominov family and my Bratva Blood Brothers were there for us, and I loved them for it. That’s why, even though I wasn’t a part of the Bratva, I was always willing to step up whenever they needed me. Just as they had when I needed them.
With their help, Louisa and I had been doing okay until the last year of school. Louisa got in with the wrong crowd and became distant. She started seeing an older guy behind my back. I tried to make her see that he was bad news, but she wouldn’t listen.
My mind spiralled, anger mixing with helplessness, and I hit the bag harder, my gloves thudding against the worn leather with a dull echo. Sweat ran into my eyes, but I didn’t stop to wipe it away. The more I thought about Louisa’s fall, the more the rage and guilt twisted inside me.
When she’d disappeared, the guys had helped me find her. It had taken several months and when we did, she was already an addict, disillusioned and beaten down, being pimped out by her boyfriend to pay for their next fix. He’d been my first kill. The guys had helped me dispose of the body and we’d brought Louisa home.
Miki’s dad paid for her rehab, and I’d never been prouder when Louisa overcame her addiction and studied graphic design. But just when I thought she’d turned a corner, I found her lifeless in her flat, another overdose victim. I gulped back the sickness in my throat at the memory of her lying on the cold bathroom tiles. A teenager with her whole life ahead of her—a bright star snuffed out too soon. I should’ve checked on her more, but I’d believed her when she said she was fine. That would haunt me forever, just like the thought that I might be responsible for Mum’s death.
Losing Louisa devastated me. The guilt and rage ate at me, and I needed something to channel it into. That’s when I joined the military. But my time there only deepened the weight of grief and loss I carried. Losing Elaine, my fiancée, was another crushing reminder of my failure to protect the ones I loved.
Each punch on the bag brought her face to mind—the last time we argued, the last time I saw her alive. She’d defied orders, determined to prove something to me, and she’d paid the price. The investigation cleared me, but the weight of it never left. If I hadn’t been her commanding officer, maybe she wouldn’t have felt the need to prove herself. Maybe she’d still be here.
The burden of it all was suffocating. After Elaine, I buried myself in work, joining the SAS, hoping I could somehow outrun the memories. But they followed me, and when Ash called to tell me that his sister, Krissa, had been murdered and they were facing unknown enemies, I took it as a sign. My chosen family needed me, and I needed them. I left the army, returned to the Rominovs, and started DuPont Security—a distraction that only kept me busy, not healed.
Then Marcie happened. I hadn’t expected her—the spark in her eyes, her stubbornness, the smile that lit up my day. She made me feel seen, like I was more than just a broken soldier. I was supposed to protect her from a stalker, see her through the ordeal, and move on. But I couldn’t. Not really.
Clenching my eyes shut, I admitted to myself why I pushed her away. I wasn’t sure I could survive letting another woman into my life, only to lose her. The thought of it… no. I couldn’t risk it.
“Ready to work out some demons?” Jeff smirked, bouncing on the balls of his feet as I approached the mat, his eyes glinting with challenge.
I nodded, stepping forward, adrenaline surging through me. As I dodged a punch, my focus snapped into place. Finally, the distraction I needed. For the next half hour, I was able to push my guilt and worries aside and live in the moment, a place I longed to stay but sadly, exhaustion put an end to that and, dripping with sweat, I headed for a shower.
Standing under the cool flow of the water, my chest still heaving, my thoughts returned once more to the woman I’d left lying in bed this morning, wishing, not for the first time, that I could have climbed in beside her.
But that would never happen. Marcie was a risk I couldn’t afford and if I couldn’t be the man she deserved, she was better off without me. Sighing heavily, I knew what had to be done—no more mixed signals, no more holding her close, and definitely no more kissing her.
Sadness gripped me, threatening to pull me to my knees. Even if it tore me apart to walk away and every cell in my body screamed in protest, it was time to let her go, whether I wanted to or not.