Chapter 26 Bastian
BASTIAN
con·fit: /k?n?fē/: noun
I keep it together until I’m out of sight.
Only when I’ve reached the ground floor and rounded the corner to find a little patch of solace behind Frank’s trailer do I stop.
Then I turn and punch the living fuck out of the trailer wall.
The cheap aluminum dents under my knuckles. My hand immediately hurts like hell, but the ache is better than all the other unwelcome feelings churning in my gut.
This is a disaster. An utter fucking disaster.
And I’m not talking about Olympus, either.
I’m talking about the fact that my dream is crumbling in my hands like a goddamn sandcastle at the beach, and yet all I can think about is Eliana, Eliana, Eliana.
I close my eyes and I smell whatever the fuck that perfume of hers is. Peach, maybe? I don’t know and it doesn’t truly matter. What matters is that I can’t get it out of my nose.
Nor can I rid myself of how it felt to take two fistfuls of her shirt and rip. I felt like a wild fucking animal. If she hadn’t been spluttering for breath, I would’ve kept on ripping until her clothes hung in shreds around her and her bare body was mine for the taking.
It’s been a long time since I had this much hunger in me. Actually, it’s been my whole life.
Because no one has done this to me before. No one has made me want so badly that it burns in my veins like poison.
No one but her.
I ought to be focused on the other shit. And I am, I am. Frank is screwing me over. I wonder if he even knows just how much it will cost if this ship goes up in flames.
Billions. Actual fucking billions.
If that is what happens, I’m gonna make damn sure that he’s close enough to feel the heat. I’ll feed him to the fire myself if I have to.
It just feels more and more lately like everything is spiraling out of control. I used to have a firm grip on the world. That’s less true than ever.
I flex my hand open and closed. A tiny trickle of blood leaks between my fingers from where my knuckles split against the trailer’s side. I shake it off, steel myself, then go to my car.
But even when I’m behind the wheel, the thought of returning to the office makes me sick to my stomach.
Even if I could handle paperwork and politics, the fact that Eliana will be there, too—assuming she calls an Uber to get back from here now that I’ve marooned her across town—means I need to stay the hell away.
Because she’s quickly becoming a temptation I cannot resist.
So I don’t go to the office. I check my calendar app instead. Sage has a PT appointment in an hour. I’ll take him to lunch and then drive him there myself. That’ll be a good distraction for a while.
And maybe a breather from Eliana is a good thing.
For both of us.
“The fuck’re you doing here?” Sage blurts in surprise when he sees me walk through the penthouse door.”
“Firstly, watch your mouth,” I say. “Secondly, is that any way to greet your brother? And thirdly, what the hell are you doing playing video games in the middle of the day? You’re supposed to be doing schoolwork.”
Sage rolls his eyes. Parenting a teenager is every bit as much of a pain in the ass as books and movies warn you it will be. The fact that he’s my younger brother and I can simply punch him when he pisses me off is a slight perk, but only slight.
“I’m at lunch,” Sage says defensively, pointing at the half-eaten sandwich on the coffee table. “And I finished my work already.”
“It’s eleven-thirty.”
“Early lunch. Easy work.”
I want to keep prying, but the truth is, Sage doesn’t have much else to fill his days. Him attending virtual school means no cafeteria lunches, no locker-room banter, no spontaneous hangouts after the final bell. Hobbies are limited. Friends are few and far between.
It has to be this way, though. His physical therapy schedule is grueling—six sessions a week, each one lasting two hours—and by the time he’s done, he’s usually too exhausted to do anything except collapse on the couch and fire up whatever game is currently holding his attention.
I’ve tried to get him interested in other things. Offered to hire tutors for subjects he enjoys. Suggested he join online clubs or gaming communities where he might make friends. I even floated the idea of adaptive sports programs.
He’s shot down every single suggestion with a vengeance.
I get it, though. What sixteen-year-old kid wants his older brother micromanaging his social life?
Still, watching him spend hours alone in this penthouse, controller in hand, makes the knife of my guilt twist that much deeper.
He should be out there living. Dating. Getting into the kind of harmless trouble that teenagers are supposed to get into.
Instead, he’s here.
Because of me.
“Can’t a man just check in on his little brother?” I cross my arms and give him my best unimpressed stare.
Sage, unfortunately, has been on the receiving end of this look since he was in diapers. He’s immune.
“What do you want, Bastian?” He pauses his game and swivels his wheelchair to face me fully. “And don’t say ‘nothing,’ because you wouldn’t come home in the middle of the day unless someone died or the restaurants are on fire. All of them.”
“Neither of those things happened.”
“Then what?”
I should’ve known better than to think I could just show up without an interrogation. Sage might be sixteen, but he’s got the instincts of a goddamn detective.
“I thought I’d take you to lunch before PT,” I say. “Somewhere good. Your choice.”
His eyes narrow. “You’re acting weird.”
“I’m being nice.”
“Exactly. That’s fuckin’ weird.”
“Once again, watch your fucking language. And why can’t I do nice things for my brother?”
Sage studies me for another long moment. I can see the gears turning in his head. He’s weighing whether to push harder or let it go.
Finally, he shrugs. “Fine. Whatever. Let it be noted for the record that I still think you’re being weird. But the sandwich I made sucked anyway.” He wheels toward the door, grabbing his jacket from the hook on his way there. “But if we’re doing this, I want Taqueria El Fuego.”
I groan. “Absolutely not.”
“You said my choice.”
“I meant somewhere good.”
“It is good. Best al pastor in the city.”
“It’s a food truck that parks next to a gas station behind a junkyard. The meat sits out in the sun. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen rats.”
“One rat. One. And he was very polite about it.”
“Sage—”
“You offered, Basti. ‘My choice.’ Those were your words. And I choose El Fuego.” He’s already rolling toward the elevator. That smug little grin on his face means he knows he’s won.
Fuck it. Fine. Seeing him smile is worth anything.
Even taco rats.
“That place really is terrible.”
“You mispronounced ‘fucking delicious,’” Sage corrects.
I can only shake my head. “I’m gonna make you wash your mouth out with soap. Or that queso. Hard to say which is the more serious threat.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” my brother says gleefully as he licks a droplet of cheese off his thumb.
“If you get cheese grease on my leather seats, I’ll gut you like a fish,” I warn him.
I throw the car in park as we arrive at his physical therapist’s office. I’m not even three full syllables into saying “Do you need—” before Sage is shaking his head.
“If you offer to help me, I’ll gut you like a fish,” he fires at me.
I raise up my hands in self-defense. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
But goddamn, it fucking kills me to watch him move. It’s a strange thing to watch someone you love struggle, especially when those struggles are your doing.
Your fault, your fault is the constant refrain in my head. Everything that’s happened to him is your fault.
I don’t want to baby him. He’s a man in the making and he deserves to carve his own path through life, proud and independent. That’s the fucked-up conundrum of it all, though: By definition, you can’t help someone be independent.
You can only stand by and watch, and offer a hand if they fall.
“I’m gonna come in,” I decide. “Don’t worry—I won’t make a scene or blow up your flirting with the cute assistant. I just haven’t shown my face in a while, and I want to check in on things.”
Sage wants to argue, I can tell, but after he gets settled into his chair outside the car, he simply shrugs. “Fine. Suit yourself. But I’m gonna pretend like I have no idea who the hell you are.”
“I’d expect no less from you,” I mutter. “Brotherly love is alive and well today.”
I follow Sage into the clinic. The PT assistant Sage has a crush on, a little blond thing named Lilah, lights up when she sees us.
“Sage! What’s up?” Her eyes pivot to me and she gulps. “And— oh, Mr. Hale. We weren’t expecting you today.”
“Thought I’d check in,” I tell her. “See how the kid’s doing.”
“He’s doing great,” she assures me. “Really pushing himself lately.”
Sage flexes his biceps and grins like a fool. My heart breaks with how much I love that idiot brother of mine.
“That’s good to hear,” I say. “Don’t let me keep you guys—go ahead, do your thing.”
I take a seat in the waiting room as Lilah and Sage go into the main workout area. Through the glass partition, I watch them get started.
His PT, a former college wrestler named Bishop with quads the size of Sage’s waist, is setting up equipment for their session. He gives me a respectful nod when he sees me watching.
Then they get to it. It gets brutal quickly. Bishop has Sage doing resistance training with bands, working the muscles in his core and upper body. Sweat beads on Sage’s forehead within minutes. His arms tremble and his jaw clenches with effort as he pulls and pushes against the tension.
“Come on, Sage,” Bishop encourages. “Five more, chief. You’ve got this.”
Sage grunts through the last reps, his face flushed red.
Pride swells in my chest. He’s so fucking strong. Stronger than I ever was at his age. Stronger than I am now, probably.
But the pride is immediately followed by the familiar wave of guilt.
I remember when he was a baby—so small I could hold him in one hand. I’d been basically a damn kid myself when our mother died giving birth to him. Aleksei brought that bundle to my doorstep, and suddenly, I had this tiny, helpless thing depending on me for everything.
I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing. Still don’t, most days.
But I looked at that baby and I made a promise: I would give him a better life than the one we’d had. No Bratva. No violence. No looking over his shoulder every second, wondering when the past would catch up.
Now, he’s sixteen, on the cusp of manhood, and I wonder what his future will look like. Will he go to college? Fall in love?
I hope so. God, I hope so.
More importantly, I hope he doesn’t make the same mistakes I’m making right now with Eliana.
“Alright, good work,” Bishop says, clapping Sage on the shoulder. “Take five, then we’ll finish up on the parallel bars.”
When they’re done, Sage comes rolling out. He’s dripping with sweat and half-asleep in his chair from exhaustion.
I give him a slow clap as we head back to the car. “Truly inspiring work in there. Especially the part where you nearly dropped a dumbbell on your foot because you were too busy staring at Lilah’s ass.”
“Oh, fuck off, I was not,” he mutters, but his ears are as red as Rudolph’s nose.
We make it to the Range Rover, and I stand by helplessly while Sage hauls himself into the front seat.
“You were absolutely staring,” I continue as I fold up his chair and stow it in the back. “I thought Bishop was going to have to physically redirect your face.”
“I was checking my form in the mirror behind her.”
“The mirror that’s on the opposite wall?”
Sage flips me off. I grin as I slide into the driver’s seat.
“You should ask her out,” I suggest, starting the engine.
Instantly, his face sours. “Oh, yeah, great idea. ‘Hey, Lilah, wanna go somewhere ramp-accessible and watch me struggle to reach things while people stare?’ Real panty-dropper material.”
“Sage—”
“I’m not talking about this with you, Bastian.” He crosses his arms and stares out the window. “Besides, what the hell do you know about romance? Aren’t you still terrorizing that girl at work, whatsherface—Allie? Emily?”
“Eliana,” I mumble.
I can feel my ears heating up just like Sage’s. Guess it runs in the family.
“Yeah, that’s the one,” he says. “Have you finished ruining her life yet, or is that still a work-in-progress?”
“I’m—”
But we’ll never find out what I am or am not doing with Eliana, because before I can answer, there’s a rap at the window. I turn…
… and see Aleksei.