27. Sasha
27
SASHA
The clothes hit me in the face before I even open my eyes the next morning.
I crack one eye open to find Kosti looming over my bed with the smugness of a man who’s been awake for hours. “Rise and shine, neania . We’re going shooting.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
I grunt and roll over, burying my face in the pillow. Every muscle protests the movement. Not surprising, given how I spent last night. And the night before that. And the night before that.
For the last week since the taverna negotiation, every midnight has been the exact same. It’s simple math: Ariel plus darkness equals release. I sneak into her room to fuck. There are no feelings, no marks, and no sleeping over. Just friction and need. Just her nails down my back as she bites her lip to keep quiet. Just my hand over her mouth when she forgets herself.
Just math.
“I said up.” A balled-up pair of socks hits my ribs. “Up, up, up. Your aim’s gone to shit and we both know it.”
This is how men like us say I worry you’ll get yourself killed , because fuck knows we could never say those words straight up.
“My aim is fine,” I snarl. “You, on the other hand, are starting to sound like the dementia is catching up.”
Kosti clucks his tongue. “You won’t sass your way out of this one, son. You think Dragan is going to wait until you get your feet back under you? Until you’re back in tippy-top shape? Fuck no, he won’t.” He yanks the pillow away from me. “Get your ass up, boy. You’ve been avoiding this long enough.”
He’s right. Of course he’s right. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.
I lever myself upright, wincing. The bullet wound in my side pulls tight, a constant reminder of how far I’ve fallen. Used to be that I could take three rounds to the chest and still wake up swinging. Now, look at me—hiding in the Tuscan countryside, sneaking into Ariel’s room every night like a teenager because I’m too weak to do anything else.
I peel myself off sweat-damp sheets, exhausted and depleted.
“Anyhow,” Kosti says as I rise, “I’m sick of you moping. You and Ariel not looking at each other—it’s exhausting.”
No, exhausting is spending every night buried inside of her. When I’m there, I think of nothing. When I’m not there, I think of being there. My whole day is spent dreaming of the stolen hours we can fuck and forget.
Fuck to forget, rather. The sex is a way of keeping heavier things at bay.
So far, it’s working.
Yakov would have words about this. None of them kind.
“I don’t mope.”
“No. You brood . It’s worse.” His gaze lingers on the fresh scratches down my back, but he says nothing. “I’ll be in the car.”
When he’s gone, I dress mechanically in the predawn darkness. Tactical pants, boots. My hands only shake a little as I do up the laces. Progress, I suppose.
I linger for a second by Ariel’s closed door, thinking of how nice it would be to slip in there and greet the morning with her in my arms. Then, with a sigh, I turn and keep going.
The drive to the abandoned quarry is mostly quiet. Kosti hums along to Italian pop songs while I stare at the sunrise bleeding over the hills. Ariel’s scent still clings to my palms.
The case with my favorite Glock sits heavy in my lap. I’ve barely touched it since we got here. Another thing Yakov would’ve had words about.
The quarry is exactly what you’d expect: a massive bite taken out of the mountainside, leaving behind tiered walls of craggy, exposed limestone. At the bottom, weathered targets dot the gravel and empty brass casings glint in the dirt—evidence of Kosti’s solo practice sessions.
“Nervous?” Kosti asks, slinging his AK over one shoulder as we leave the car and walk to where we’ll set up.
I slam the magazine home harder than necessary. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
I check the Glock with movements that should be automatic but aren’t. Muscle memory fights with injury as I load the magazine. The familiar weight feels wrong in my palms, like reuniting with an old friend only to find they’ve changed.
Or maybe I’m the one who’s different.
I line up with the beer can resting on a rock about fifty yards out. No matter what my body has gone through, this part never leaves me.
Exhale.
Steady.
Gentle squeeze, and…
I miss by a fucking mile.
I frown as I see just how badly wide my shot veered. “Cross-wind,” I mutter. “Gotta adjust.” I crack my neck from side to side, then start the process all over again.
Exhale.
Steady.
Gentle squeeze.
And…
Worse. Much worse.
“ Chtob u tebya hui vo lbu vyros, ” I curse.
Kosti watches, lighting a cigarette. The crack of the match is louder than my missed shots. “Was that the wind again?” he asks. “Or did the gun let you down?”
“Fuck you.”
“The answer is neither, Sasha.” He exhales a plume of smoke. “It’s your head that’s the problem.”
I raise the Glock again, teeth gritted. Fuck the can; the next target over appears in my sights—a paper outline of a man, black and white.
Simple. Math.
Boom.
Ten yards in the wrong direction. The target remains pristine.
I, on the other hand, am a mess. I’m sweating out of nowhere, even though the morning is relatively cool. Pain lances up my side, bright and hot. “The fucking sights are off.”
“The sights are fine and you know it.” He exhales a smoke ring. “You’re off.”
Another shot. Another miss. The gun recoils in my grip like a spooked horse. What to blame now? Sleepless nights? Months cut off from my men, my money, my empire? Oh, poor fucking me—my mattress wasn’t TempurPedic, so I can’t kill anymore?
I fire again.
Again, I miss.
“You’re anticipating the recoil,” Kosti observes. “Flinching before you even pull the trigger. Like you’re afraid of the pain.”
I turn on him with a snarl. “I’m not afraid of anything.”
“No?” His eyebrow climbs. “Then why are you still here?”
We both know he’s not talking about the quarry anymore.
I empty the rest of the magazine into the target. The shots are sloppy, scattered. None of them would have killed a man. Some wouldn’t even have slowed him down.
My hands are shaking so badly now that I can barely reload. Sweat trickles down my spine, cold sweat, ice-cold fucking sweat.
“Let me see it.” Kosti reaches for the Glock.
I twist away. “Fuck off . ”
“Sasha—”
I load a fresh clip and start over. In my head, I’m seventeen again, in a basement, wire around my throat. Ssyklo. Boom. Ssyklo. Boom . Ssyk ? —
Kosti steps into my eyeline and forces me to lower the gun. “Enough.”
“Move.”
“I’m not moving, and if you try to pull the trigger, you’ll blow your goddamn foot off. Let go of the gun, Sasha.”
I sigh and let him pry the gun from my slack fingers. He turns, cigarette still stashed in the corner of his mouth. With half a dozen quick, efficient shots, he obliterates the target.
Head. Head. Torso. Torso. Head. Groin.
Dead.
The truth molders between us, another corpse rotting in the Tuscan sun. I can’t outshoot a crippled octogenarian right now. Can’t protect Ariel. Can’t even protect myself.
He doesn’t have to say anything. I know what he’s thinking.
I’m not ready. Not even close.
Dragan’s out there somewhere, gathering his forces, encroaching on everything I’ve ever conquered. And here I am, missing paper targets and fucking Ariel in the dark like it’s going to fix anything.
“I left something in the car,” I lie. I don’t look at Kosti’s face—I just turn and march back up the hill.
When I reach the Peugeot, I slump into the passenger seat. The upholstery reeks of Kosti’s cigarettes. Through the windshield, he paces the quarry’s edge, phone pressed to his ear. Arguing with someone.
A memory surfaces—Zoya dabbing vodka on the knife wound I’d earned at sixteen, her hands steady as scalpels. You’re lucky it didn’t hit bone , she’d scolded. Next time, maybe you’ll think before picking fights with grown men.
Next time. Always next time that I’ll be better, smarter, stronger, faster.
Except now there are no next times left. Just this—broken promises, a quarry full of spent casings, a villa full of bad choices.
Maybe I can make a good one for a fucking change.
Zoya answers on the second ring. “ Solnyshko? ” Her voice is warm honey and home. “I’ve been worried.”
I close my eyes and let her voice transport me somewhere else. I’m not in a sunbaked quarry anymore—I’m in her kitchen as she feeds me and Ariel honey cakes. “I wanted to keep you out of this,” I rasp to her. “I thought that was best. But… fuck. Maybe I was wrong about doing it all myself.”
Kitchen clatter dies down as Zoya stops whatever she was doing. “Tell me what you need from me, Sashenka.”
I tell her.
Then I hang up. March back down the hill. Line up my sights. Exhale. Steady. Gentle squeeze…
Bang.
The bullet hits dead center. Right through the paper heart.