Chapter 1
ONE
ILYA
A full week has passed since I’d killed Artyom, and I still can’t sleep.
I don’t want to go home to my empty condo tonight. I don’t want to be trapped with the visions of Artyom begging for his life. I don’t need the nightmares of his blood endlessly pouring over me. What a stupid nightmare; Artyom hadn’t even bled that much.
I shouldn’t be this affected by Artyom’s death. Just because I’d liked him. Just because I’d thought him a friend!
I should know already that there are no friends to be had in this world.
A man like me cannot trust.
Since I can’t sleep, I end up driving out to my favorite bar. It’s far enough out of the way that I don’t expect to see any of my underlings, and the atmosphere is quiet. The people here know not to bother other patrons.
The light from the street lamps flicker in through the car window and illuminate my hands on the steering wheel. I growl and get out, slamming the door behind me.
The sky is heavy with humidity, the clouds blocking out the moon and stars.
As if there are any stars to see in the big city. New Bristol is full of light pollution even in its poorest neighborhoods.
I stalk into the bar, my bad mood dogging my steps.
I force myself to take a breath once I’m inside. The inviting warmth manages to calm me despite myself. There are no raucous parties of drunkards, no college children boozing it up. It doesn’t smell like terrible American alcohol. The music doesn’t drown out the sounds of people chatting.
I walk to the bar and sit down on the single empty bar chair. Everybody’s attention is on the stage at the far end of the room, which holds the source of the music—a woman playing a violin. She isn’t great, but she isn’t terrible either.
As I wait to be served, I spot the sign near the stage: “Open mic night.” Amateurs performing for unwilling bar-goers, except everybody here is being very respectful. When the woman finishes her piece, the audience claps despite how mediocre she was.
It’s one of the reasons I enjoy this place. Every Thursday, people gather to encourage each other, not tear each other down. The Americans are so much kinder, so much less blunt, than what I’m used to.
I order a beer and wait for the next performer to come on stage. Surely judging the talents of strangers has to be a better use of my time than wallowing in sorrow and regret and remembering the terrible nightmares.
I’m not supposed to have nightmares.
I’m not supposed to care about one more employee I’d considered a friend.
The next performer to come on stage is a small, reedy-looking man with a set of hand drums. He introduces himself and begins some poem that I don’t bother trying to decipher. I don’t like poetry in Russian; I’m not going to attempt to understand it in English.
My eyes wander around the room. Judging from the expressions on some of the faces, they aren’t that enthused by the poetry either.
I tense when I see an elegant blond man sitting with a big, burly bruiser of a man. They’re leaning close to each other, and the blond is whispering something to his companion.
That’s Silvano Cresci, the head of the Cresci Family. He’s a professional ally, and under other circumstances I would go over there to greet him—or to find out what he’s doing in a bar in the outskirts of the city where people perform bad poetry.
I’m not in the mood though, so I pretend I didn’t spot him and his… friend.
His husband. They’d invited me to the wedding, and I’d gone out of sheer curiosity. Two men getting married, legally. Openly.
I would never have imagined something like that even five years ago. Last year, even. But I’d blinked, and suddenly Silvano Cresci was the leader of the Cresci family, and it was an open secret that he had a male lover.
New Bristol is very different from St. Petersburg.
There is no reason to pretend to enjoy women, here in New Bristol.
I order another beer and clap politely along with everybody else when the man with his poetry finally finishes.
The next person on stage catches my eye, partially because the cello seems to be about twice the size of his lean body and partially because his own blond hair makes him look almost angelic.
There’s a profound sadness to him that I only recognize because it resonates so strongly with my current mood.
Some of his shaggy hair falls into his face, and he doesn’t bother to brush it away. He doesn’t introduce himself, either, instead opening with the lines of a song I don’t know.
The first few notes are soft, hesitant, and at first, I think it will be another mediocre attempt at playing a song beyond his skill level.
But as he picks up confidence — or whatever it is that’s driven him to this stage this evening — the song becomes more ethereal, more haunting, until I think I’ll hear the music in my dreams.
He lifts his head, and my breath catches in my throat.
Looking at his beautiful features, though, my first thought is: I want him.
I scoff at myself. It’s a stupid reaction. I’m upset about having killed Artyom. I’m on my third beer. The man is beautiful and plays well, but it doesn’t mean anything.
I must not have a man.
When I look away from him, my eyes fall onto Silvano Cresci and Kyran Winters again. They’re sitting closer than before, and Kyran’s arm is slung across Silvano’s shoulders.
Men fucking men isn’t taboo, here in this city.
The music crescendos, and my attention is drawn back toward the man on stage. The fingers of one hand nimbly fly across the strings at the top, while the other wields the bow like a man possessed. He’s breathing more heavily, and he bows his head forward to hide his expression once more.
When he brings the song to a close, the entire audience is completely silent.
The first clap is jarring, but soon the entire room bursts into applause. I clap too, unable to look away from the man.
He reaches up to wipe at his eyes before standing.
His expression takes my breath away.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice shaky. His hands are trembling, too, I realize, as he tucks the bow away before carefully lifting the heavy instrument to carry it offstage.
I find myself on my feet and heading toward him before I can stop myself, drawn to him. I get to the stage and lift part of the cello.
“Let me help you,” I say. “Where do you want to take it?”
He looks up at me, freezing for a few seconds before he says, “It’s okay. I have it.” He offers a tentative smile, for all that it doesn’t reach his deep green eyes — eyes that are glassy with tears.
I glance at his arms, which are maybe half as thick as my own. Sweat is already trickling down his brow.
“You look exhausted,” I say gently. “Let me do this for you. As payment for wonderful performance.”
My own voice is foreign to me now. I don’t speak with nice words. The only things I know how to say are dark and violent.
Clean up this mess.
I add a small smile, hoping to put the man at ease.
Color fills his cheeks, and he hesitates. I think he’s going to refuse, but he finally nods. “Just be gentle with him,” he mumbles.
“Him?” I ask, baffled.
“Not every instrument has to be feminine,” he says, and there’s a tiny smile that quirks onto his lips that lifts his features completely.
I look at the instrument. “It is feminine in Russian. The word, I mean.”
The smile tugging at his lips seems more sincere. “It’s masculine in French. Violoncelle.” He watches me warily as I pick up the cello with as much care as he took with his words, and he looks away only to lead me from the stage into a quiet back room.
He opens up a case for the instrument, and I carefully place it inside.
“You played very well,” I say while the man locks up the case.
He pauses again, looking away from me and toward the door, like he expects someone to be standing there. I look, but no one’s there.
“Thank you,” he says with the lack of grace of someone who seems entirely unused to accepting compliments. “Do you play?”
I shake my head. “No. My sister played violin. I had to listen to her horrible practice sessions. But my parents made me play sports instead.” I let out an awkward laugh, and he offers me an equally strained smile. “My name is Ilya.” I extend a hand to him.
Is this flirting?
Am I truly flirting with a man who looks half my age?
He blinks at me, hesitating before taking my hand in a grip that’s tentative — but it lingers, too. “Micah. It’s nice to meet you, Ilya,” he says shyly.
This should be the end of our interaction. There is no reason for me to remain here, no reason for me to spend more time with some young man who looks like he’s on the verge of drowning.
But I don’t want to go home. I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts; I don’t want to fall into more nightmares.
I might not be able to fix my own hurts, but the ones in his haunted eyes?
That seems a lot more doable.
I pat him on the shoulder. “Let me buy you a drink, Micah. We can politely clap when other people perform.”
Micah smiles at me, though his eyes flick to the doorway again.
“Are you expecting someone?” I ask, following his gaze.
A small voice reminds me that no interactions are safe, that I need to stay on alert. Mostly, I’m disappointed by the idea that Micah might not want to stay with me.
He shakes his head quickly. “No. I…” He bites the inside of his cheek, then says, “There’s no one.”
I give Micah’s shoulder a squeeze before putting my arm near the small of his back, the way I’ve never dared with a man.
I wait for his reaction—I know I would bristle if anybody treated me like that—but Micah doesn’t pull away.
He’s a little tense, a little too aware, but he seems to come to some sort of conclusion after a moment because he cautiously rests back against me.
Is he scared because I’m older and bigger?
Does he sense the blood on my hands?
No. That’s silly. He’s a young man who probably has many others flirting with him. If he didn’t want my attention, he could say so. He could walk away.