Milo
Just as I step inside the house, a sense of foreboding settles over me.
It creeps beneath my skin, almost nauseating. The air feels wrong, stale, heavy, thick with old memories that have long since soured. I step further inside when my phone vibrates in my hand.
Isaak.
“Speak,” I answer.
“I’ll send you an address,” he says. “We might have someone. Or it may lead nowhere. Either way, we’ll wait for you here.”
The line disconnects. A moment later, the location appears on my screen. I glance at it and see it’s around fifteen minutes away.
For a second, I consider leaving immediately. Instead, I step further into the house.
A woman approaches from the hallway.
Katya.
She has been with this family since I was a child. Her eyes lift to mine as if she intends to speak, but whatever words form die before they reach her lips.
She lowers her gaze.
“Follow me,” she says softly, in Russian.
As she leads me toward the staircase, I realise that perhaps my mother truly did ask for me, and this isn’t one of his manipulations to lure me here.
We climb in silence. Katya opens a door at the end of the corridor, and there, lying on the bed, is my mother.
She lies motionless.
Even from the doorway, I can see there is no rise and fall of her chest. Her skin is so pale it is almost translucent against the dark of her hair. She looks frail, as though she’s been sustained by tubes for a while now.
She doesn’t look alive.
I doubt she is.
Footsteps stop behind me.
When I turn, I see the repulsive face of my father—Viktor Markev.
Disgust knots in my chest simply because he is still breathing.
“How gracious of you to finally appear,” he says.
I don’t respond, but I register the implication. He knows I’ve been in Russia.
My eyes remain fixed on the woman who gave birth to me.
“She’s dead,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. “She died about thirty three minutes ago.”
I stay silent and nod once, still not taking my eyes off the figure on the bed.
I feel nothing… grief, rage, even relief remain out of reach.
Emptiness is all I fucking feel.
I turn and walk out of the room.
“Where are you going?” Viktor snaps, following me.
I keep walking. He has lost his leverage over me completely. There is nothing left here for him to hold over my head, so why would I stay?
“I’m talking to you, you pathetic excuse for a son.”
I don’t turn. That bastard holds no power over me now, less than ever before.
“I heard you got yourself a little girlfriend,” he says, suddenly. “Tragic, really. I’m told she’s dead. My condolences.”
That makes me stop.
I turn slowly and step into his space.
“What the fuck do you know?” I grind out.
He smirks.
“What do you know?” I repeat, stopping myself from closing my hands around his throat and squeeze until his eyes bulge from their sockets.
He studies my reaction carefully.
“Nothing important,” he finally says. “You’re my son. I keep tabs on you. I know you had a girlfriend. I know she died.”
My jaw tightens.
I step back but keep my eyes on him.
Why mention her now?
Why so casually?
The unease that has followed me since I entered this house tightens.
I glance around, and the feeling presses against my chest.
I need some damn answers, but all I have is confusion.
He knows about Octavia. He has likely known for a while.
Why bring her up now?
To wound me?
To provoke me?
To remind me he can use her now that Kira is dead?
But could he, when she isn’t here anymore?
Fuck.
I turn away before I actually kill him.
I don’t ask another question. I don’t listen to whatever he snaps after me.
I bloody leave.
As I walk toward my car, her name echoes in my head, distorted by the sound of it in his mouth.
Fuck.
Why am I this wound up? It’s the house. It holds too many corrupted memories.
That’s all.
And yet the feeling doesn’t ease.
What if he is involved? It isn’t his style, but that doesn’t mean he’s incapable.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
My head is so fucked up that nothing makes sense anymore.
All I know is that I don’t like the fact that he mentioned her.
He has just secured his place at the top of my list of suspects.
I shake the thought away as my phone begins to ring again.
I ignore it.
I’ll have my people dig into him. Tear through everything, where he has been, what he has done these past months, whether he ever left Russia at all.
I start the engine and pull away fast.
As the mansion recedes in the rear view mirror, a sudden pain grips my chest.
And I don’t understand it.
I don’t hurt for anyone… anymore.
The only person who ever had that power over me is my girl.
So why the hell do I feel like this?
“Soon, my love,” I murmur into the empty car. “I’m getting closer to avenging you. And then I’m coming to you.”
We will reunite.
In the near future.