Chapter 6
Alexei
Isit in an old, beat-up gray Toyota across from Kelly’s clinic, in one of the cars we keep for when we need to stay invisible. No tint, no features worth noticing. Smells like old sweat and cardboard, and the seat’s worn down to nothing.
Should have known better than to think I could just drop him off and walk away clean.
Four days since I left him outside his building, and I’m already back here, engine cold, watching him through windows.
So much for self-control.
I’ve shown remarkable restraint by staying out of his apartment since I dropped him off. Haven’t been inside once. That’s progress.
That doesn’t mean I’ve stopped watching—just from a distance now.
Daniil had a breakdown that night, blowing up my phone with frantic texts about Mikhail not coming home. The two of them have serious attachment issues, and no one in this family has ever dealt with any of it properly.
But here I am, proving we’re all the same brand of broken. Sitting in a surveillance car, cataloging the life of someone who doesn’t know I exist outside of two strange nights.
I’ve gone through everything I can access: his apartment, his clinic file, every digital trace he’s made in the last year.
I’ve counted the steps from his bedroom to his kitchen. Ten steps; eleven if he avoids the squeaky floorboard. I know his coffee order, his grocery list, the fact that he owns three books and hasn’t opened any of them.
I know everything.
Except the one thing that matters.
Something big happened, enough to make him file a restraining order, but I can’t find a name attached to it. Not even a redacted alias or case number. Nothing on record anywhere.
Someone erased Kelly’s past, and I don’t know who or why.
That’s what’s eating at me. Someone else knows his secrets, and I don’t.
I know too much and not enough at the same time. Every move, every detail, every pointless habit mapped out in my head, and it’s still not enough. It’s rotting a hole in my skull, and I can’t stop myself from sitting here watching him every day.
Consumed. That’s what this is.
I press my tongue against my teeth and let out a laugh that doesn’t sound right even to me.
I need sleep. If I don’t shut my eyes soon, I’ll start seeing him even when he’s not there.
He walks out the clinic door, pulling on a jacket over his navy scrubs. It’s eleven a.m. He isn’t done working. His shift doesn’t end until five, and he never leaves early, never breaks routine unless something’s wrong.
Where are you going?
I pull my hood up and get out of the car. Rain hits my face, and I’m already moving, crossing the street to follow him. Some asshole in a sedan nearly clips me, and I flip him off.
Kelly’s half a block ahead, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the weather.
He turns into the supermarket on the corner, and I give him twenty seconds before I follow.
This is unusual. He usually stays at the clinic, eats whatever he packed that morning, works through lunch because he won’t say no when someone brings in a sick animal.
I stay tucked near the entrance, watching. His sandy-blonde hair is damp from the rain, sticking to his forehead. His cheeks are flushed pink from the cold, and he keeps licking his lips. They glisten every time he does it, and I track the movement without meaning to. Fuck.
He pulls coins out of his pocket. Counts them. Scratches the back of his head and glances around, quick nervous movements, then takes off toward the back of the store. Grabs a banana from the discount bin, nearly black on one end, then a protein yogurt after checking the price tag twice.
That’s all he’s getting. A bruised banana and yogurt because he’s counting pocket change to afford lunch.
I could fix this. One transfer and he’d never have to choose the cheapest option again, never have to count coins in a grocery store. But that would require explaining how I know everything about his financial struggles, and we’re not there yet.
I’m still watching him when someone walks into him, hard enough that Kelly almost falls. The banana drops. His back slams into the shelf, and his hands fly up instantly, defensive, bracing for a hit.
The guy shoves Kelly’s shoulder again. “Watch where you’re fucking going, man.”
I curl my hands into fists in my pockets.
That motherfucker.
Kelly looks at the floor, picks up the bruised banana. Rubs his back. Won’t look up. I bite the inside of my cheek as the asshole snaps something else at him, then walks away.
Kelly walks toward the register to pay, but I don’t follow. Can’t. If I get any closer right now, I’ll do something he’ll see.
So, I go hunting instead.
The piece of shit is just two aisles over, standing in front of the cereal, trying to decide between boxes. I close the distance, smooth and quiet. Grab a fistful of his hair. He starts to turn, mouth opening, and I slam his face into the metal shelf edge. Hard.
The crunch when his nose collapses is satisfying and immediate. He grunts, as if dazed, and his legs give out. Blood pools under his cheek, spreading toward a box of cereal.
I spot the wet floor sign a few feet away. Walk over, pick it up, bring it down on his ribs three times.
These stores really need to be more careful about mopping when they’re still open.
Wet floors are dangerous. Man slips, hits his head wrong, stops breathing. Tragic accident. Happens more than people think.
I drop the sign next to him and walk away.
By the time I make it back to the front, Kelly’s already gone. I spot him half a block down, heading toward the clinic. Bruised banana in one hand, yogurt in the other. He ducks inside, and the door swings shut behind him. Oblivious.
I head back to my car. Rain soaks through my jacket. The phone buzzes in my pocket. I drag it out, jaw already clenching.
Group Chat: screwups
Mikhail:
added Daniil, added Alexei
Mikhail:
Welcome to the screwup club big bro
Daniil:
He’s leaving in 5 seconds
Mikhail:
Already typing some angry response guaranteed
Me:
What the fuck do you idiots want?
Mikhail:
CALLED IT
Mikhail:
Calder wants us at the warehouse. Port side. Says he has something
Mikhail:
Probably bodies but who knows with that lunatic
Daniil:
The big one on Halperin
Mikhail:
Yeah obviously Danya which other warehouse would he use?
Mikhail:
Also fathers being weird. I think he knows about what happened
Me:
Knows what?
Mikhail:
That you got shot dumbass
Mikhail:
He’s asking questions
Daniil:
Stop texting about this
Mikhail:
Relax nobody’s reading our texts
Mikhail:
Right Alexei???
Me:
You’re both idiots
Mikhail:
Cool see you in 20
I sigh and rub my forehead, already picturing exactly what’s happening. They’re probably sitting next to each other right now with their phones out, typing like assholes.
Mikhail kicking Daniil under the table, him pretending to ignore him while typing exactly what Mikhail tells him to. Both of them trying to get a rise out of me like when we were kids, except now it’s not about stolen candy or broken windows.
I curse and toss my phone onto the passenger seat. I lean back and try to breathe, but it sticks halfway down my throat.
I put the car in drive and pull away from the curb. The warehouse Mikhail’s talking about is down by the port we control. Calder’s favorite spot when he needs privacy. Bad news for whoever’s inside.
Our family runs that entire port.
We oversee shipments, keep the smaller families in line, take orders straight from Father. On paper, it’s a legitimate shipping company with a long-term lease, clean and legal. No one looks twice at the paperwork.
In reality, nothing gets in or out without us knowing about it first. Guns, stolen cars, crates with no names attached.
It all passes through our hands before it goes anywhere else.
Doesn’t matter who signed for it or whose name’s on the official documents.
If it hits that dock, it belongs to us until we decide we’re done with it.
I don’t know what Mikhail’s talking about, saying Father’s acting suspicious.
Unless they talked recently. Which means Mikhail probably fucked up. Again. He can’t keep his mouth shut, can’t just answer simple questions without volunteering extra information. Tries to explain things that don’t need explaining, fill silence that should stay empty.
Father notices everything. Every pause, every word that doesn’t belong, every time someone tries too hard to sound normal. And Mikhail always tries too hard.
If the old man suspects something, it’s because Mikhail gave him a reason to.
I park beside Daniil’s ugly-ass purple McLaren after clearing the security gate. Still can’t understand why he picked that color out of every option on Earth.
I glance out the window and see them inside the car talking with their hands flying around like they’re mid-argument.
Figures. I kill the engine and step out.
The second my door slams shut, I hear theirs pop open too. Footsteps crunch across the gravel behind me, and someone grabs my shoulder.
“Don’t,” I say.
Mikhail freezes. “What if Calder mentions something to the others?”
“He won’t. He’s loyal to everyone in the family and keeps everyone’s secrets. That’s why we all trust him.”
Mikhail scoffs and moves past me toward the warehouse. “Pretty sure Father already knows anyway.” He drags a hand over his buzzed head, his blue eyes flicking my way.
“Let’s just get this over with,” I mutter and shoulder him hard as I pass. He stumbles a little, and a string of Russian curses hits my back, but I don’t turn around. My lips twitch with amusement.
The warehouse is massive. Gray metal exterior, loading bays along the side, big enough to take direct shipments off the water. I head toward the side door we use for family business.