Chapter 31
Alexei
Several hours after breakfast, I find Aurora in the studio, absorbed in her work. She doesn’t hear me enter as she arranges pieces of shattered china against an adhesive. Since gifting the room to her a few days ago, I barely recognize the space.
The previously bare concrete now explodes with color and pandemonium.
Her chaotic light.
Even the sun seems different here, filtering through the windows she cleaned and shining on tables crowded with broken things waiting to be reborn.
I observe her from just outside the elevator.
She’s wearing one of my t-shirts, knotted at the waist, sleeves rolled up to her shoulders.
Safety goggles push her hair back from her face in wild waves.
Dust and dried adhesive streak her arms like war paint.
She works with the same focus I bring to field-stripping a weapon.
Methodical, certain, with muscle memory guiding each motion.
The piece shaping beneath her hands is…gorgeous.
I don’t know art. Never cared to. But this fragmented blue and white wavelike pattern speaks to a place buried deep inside me.
The shattered edges fit together perfectly, creating a beautiful whole from fragments that anyone else would relegate to the trash.
She glances up with a start, finally sensing me. “Holy shit!” Her hand flies to her chest. “Make some noise next time.”
Battling my own nature, I steel myself to ask the woman who’s flipped my life upside down for a favor. “I need your help.”
She sets down her tool—the nipper gadget she delighted over—and slides the goggles up to her forehead. “What’s going on?”
“I need to talk to Johnny without scaring the shit out of him. If you’re there, you can serve as a buffer.”
Though her eyebrows lift in surprise, she doesn’t hesitate. “Sure, I’ll help.”
“I found him.” I spent the morning ferreting out all the details on Johnny I could. “He works at a garage in Pilsen. But—”
“But you knew you’d freak him out.” She peels off her work gloves, wiping her hands on a rag that’s dirtier than her fingers. “And you showing up at his home or workplace would definitely terrify him.”
I give a single, sharp nod. She gets it—gets me—in ways that infuse me with both gratitude and uneasiness.
“So you need me to…what?” She tilts her head, studying me with clear green eyes. “Introduce you? Vouch for you?”
“Yes.”
A soft laugh rings out, and she shakes her head. “You know, for someone who lives in a city of millions, you’re not very good with people.”
The observation should anger me or feel like an exposed weakness. Instead, I find myself fighting a smile. “I’m good with certain kinds of people.”
“The kind you intimidate or kill, you mean.” She crosses to a sink in the corner and scrubs adhesive from her hands.
“Johnny’s not that kind. He’s a decent guy.
A little simple maybe, but good. Honest.” She dries off and crosses the studio to gather her purse.
“Let me change, and then we should go. If he works nights, he might be leaving soon.”
No hesitation or second-guessing. She’s adjusting to this life—to my life—faster than I dreamed possible.
The thought elicits equal parts satisfaction and concern. “I’ll drive.”
She rolls her eyes. “Obviously. I don’t know where he lives.”
ALEXEI
Aurora was right to worry about missing Johnny. By the time we arrive at his house, his truck is gone.
So we drive to the garage where he works instead.
The area looks clear. No suspicious cars, no watchers at windows, no telltale signs of an ambush. Just an old one-story brick building in a quiet neighborhood where people mind their own business.
Aurora heads inside to ask for Johnny. Shortly after, the two of them emerge from one of the bays, chatting like old friends. He doesn’t have two obviously different-sized feet, but he does possess the same dumpy face as Benny. Family resemblance. Or maybe poor skin care.
She leads the man straight to my window. “Johnny, this is my friend, Alexei. He’s the one who wanted to talk to you.”
I don’t miss the way she introduces me.
The mechanic scratches his chin with a calloused, grease-streaked hand. He doesn’t offer to shake. “Friend, huh? He looks like what Benny used to call ‘family.’ And not the Christmas dinner kind either. The organized crime kind.”
Fucker’s got a lot of nerve. Even if his assumption is correct.
“Johnny,” Aurora’s voice gentles, “I’m not trying to get you in trouble. But Benny’s gone, and there are people who want to know why. People who might come asking a lot less nicely.”
He glances at me again. His throat bobs. “Look, I don’t know details. Benny and me, we weren’t close like that. Different mothers. Different lives. Different lifestyles even. We only agreed to meet up every week because our dad asked for it, and he’s on his last leg.”
Assuming a casual stance to ease his nerves, I prop an arm on the open window. “But you saw him regularly.”
Johnny’s mouth tightens. “Yeah. Family’s family, even when they’re screwing up. I tried to keep him straight. Fat lot of good that did.”
Aurora lounges against the car. “Did he mention anything after he got out of prison? Any new friends? New opportunities?”
Johnny drags a hand over his close-cropped dark hair. “He said he got out with some ‘hot info.’ Something he wanted to sell. Kept saying he was gonna be set for life.”
“Did he say what that information was?”
“Nah. But he was always hanging around on the periphery of the Reznik family. And if that didn’t work, he said he had a lot of other interested parties.” He shrugs. “Benny liked to talk big, you know? Always had an angle, a scheme. Always needed someone else to fund him.”
The Reznik Bratva.
Another mafia family on our territory’s eastern edge. Smaller than the Falcones but ambitious. Growing. And apparently interested in whatever Benny knew. “Any clue who those ‘parties’ were?”
Johnny’s face shutters as he rears back.
“No clue. Don’t wanna know.” When he straightens, I catch more of that brotherly resemblance.
The same stubborn set to his jaw and defiance in his eyes.
“You’re all bad news.” He starts toward the garage, clearly done with this chat. “Time’s up. I got work to get to.”
Aurora speaks to his retreating back. “Thank you, Johnny. For talking to us.”
She walks around the hood of the car and climbs into the passenger seat. “He’s not wrong.”
I resist the urge to jump out of my seat and beat the shit out of the guy. “About getting out while you can?”
“About you being bad news.” There’s no bite in her words, just a simple statement of fact. “About all of this being bad news.”
I don’t argue.
Can’t argue.
Because she’s right.
I am bad news. Have been since I was old enough to hold a gun. MJ was the good brother. The one who should have stayed clear and clean.
The one who should still be alive.
“So Benny had information.” I help her with her seat belt, a gesture I don’t examine too closely. “Information enticing enough to interest multiple families.”
She settles deeper into the seat, getting comfortable. “Information worth killing for.”
“Worth dying for, apparently.”
The pieces, while there, still don’t fit together yet. Benny. MJ. The Rezniks. Gio Falcone. What connects them? What secret was valuable enough to get my brother killed?
Aurora watches me, her expression thoughtful. “Wanna grab some ice cream?”
The question startles me. Has anyone ever asked me to get ice cream before? “That sounds good.” Despite the weight suffocating my chest, I smile at the surprise that flits across her features. “You earned it.”
We drive in silence for ten minutes, my mind sifting through everything we just learned.
Benny had intel that multiple families were interested in.
Something connected to MJ and his “suicide.” I run through possibilities, connections, and angles, so focused on the puzzle that I almost miss Aurora’s sudden hiss and the way she presses her hand against the passenger window like a child spotting a toy store.
“Stop! Pull over!” She practically bounces in her seat while pointing to a cluster of tents and tables spread across an empty lot. “Flea market!”
I frown at the crowd. With all the people milling about, there are too many variables, too many unknowns. Potential threats everywhere. “Too crowded. And what about the ice cream?”
“Five minutes. The ice cream can wait.” Her eyes brighten with excitement. “I need more materials. This is perfect.”
I hesitate, weighing risks against her obvious longing. Yesterday, someone almost killed her, and now she wants to wander through a public market. While I don’t expect assassins to be lurking in bumfuck nowhere, it pays to be cautious.
Going against every instinct, I signal and pull into the lot. Vibrating with anticipation, she scrambles out of the car before I can even shift into park. I switch off the engine and trail behind her, scanning for threats, watchers, or anything out of place.
Old habits.
Necessary habits in my world for those who want to survive.
The market is a maze of tables piled with junk. Old furniture, tarnished jewelry, books with broken spines, clothes that smell of mothballs and forgotten closets. People rush past each other, haggling in multiple languages. Too much noise and far too many bodies and blind spots for comfort.
Aurora doesn’t clue in to my tension as she flits from table to table with purpose. She passes jewelry, vintage clothing, and old records without a second glance.
After scanning and rejecting a few more vendors, she halts at a junk-laden table. “Look! Oyster shells! Aren’t they great?”
To me, they’re garbage. The discarded remnants of someone’s dinner. But she cradles the shells like they’re diamonds, tracing the ridged surfaces and pearlescent interiors.
This woman finds beauty where I see nothing.
Possibility where I only notice waste.
As she hums with happiness underneath the harsh sunlight of the parking lot, a weight settles in my chest. If I’m not careful, I could fall for this woman.
Or maybe it’s already too late.