Chapter 13 Eliana
ELIANA
turn /t?rn/: noun
I tell Yasmin everything while we’re still sprawled on the floor. The words come out in barely comprehensible gasps between hiccups. “Bastian’s alive.”
“Bastian is— Wait, what? Eliana, what are you talking about?”
“The funeral—it was a lie— He’s alive, Yas. He was in the apartment when I got home.”
Her arms tighten around me. I can smell the grease from her shift, that heady combo of croissant butter and industrial cleaner that means she pulled a tough double. And here I am, dumping this fresh hell into her lap, like the asshole I am.
“He staged it,” I continue to splutter, “because his brother—Aleksei, the one from the Bratva—has his little brother Sage, he’s holding him hostage or something, I don’t know, and Bastian came here asking for my help, and I—”
The hiccup turns into a sob that drowns out anything else I might try to say. Yasmin rocks me harder.
“I told him to leave,” I whisper. “I told him no.”
“Good,” Yasmin says fiercely. “You should have.”
“But Sage—”
“—is not your problem.” Her hand strokes my hair, the gesture so sisterly that it makes my chest ache. “Bastian made his choices, El. You don’t owe him anything. He’s just a selfish bastard and you don’t owe him a single damn thing.”
“I hate him.”
“I know.”
“But…”
And here comes the but. The biggest one of them all, the one that’s been torturing me ever since I closed the door on Bastian’s retreating figure.
“But Sage didn’t do anything wrong. He’s just a kid, and if Aleksei hurts him because Bastian asked me for help and I said no…”
“Stop.” Yasmin cuts through my spiraling thoughts. “You are not responsible for what happens to Sage. You are not responsible for Bastian’s family drama or his criminal brother or any of it. You’ve been through enough.”
I press my hand against my stomach.
“And you’re pregnant,” Yasmin adds when she sees the gesture. “With your baby, El. Not his. Yours. That baby deserves a mother who doesn’t throw herself into the path of oncoming trains just because some asshole shows up with a might-not-even-be-true sob story about his brother.”
I just sniffle.
“You need to think about stability,” she advises. “A safe place to live, prenatal care—that’s the kind of thing that deserves your attention. You’re building a life that does not and cannot involve dead mobsters or fake funerals or violent men who ask you to risk everything for them.”
Stability. Right. As if that’s something I’ve ever actually achieved in my entire goddamn life.
But maybe that’s the point.
Maybe this baby—this tiny, gummy-bear-sized presence that I can barely wrap my head around—is my chance to build something that doesn’t collapse the moment I look away.
Except…
Except…
Except I can’t stop seeing Sage’s face.
Eight years old and stuck in a wheelchair because Bastian was driving. Sixteen now and held hostage by a murderous psychopath.
I think back to being sixteen myself. Mom would bring home another Derek, and I’d lie awake listening to their voices through thin walls, wondering if this one would be different. They never, ever were—but did that stop me from hoping?
No. No, it did not.
At least I could run, though. When things got bad enough, I could grab my backpack and crash at a friend’s or sleep on the El or just leave. Sage doesn’t have that option. He’s stuck—literally, physically stuck—wherever Aleksei decides to put him.
I feel sick.
“Elly?” Yasmin’s voice pulls me back. “You still with me?”
“Yeah,” I lie.
But I’m not. I’m somewhere else entirely, watching a kid in a wheelchair who can’t possibly understand why his brother abandoned him. Sage is probably terrified right now, wondering if Bastian is coming back or if he’s been left behind like their mother left them both.
“What are you thinking?” Yasmin asks. I can hear the wariness in her voice. She knows me too well.
“I’m thinking…” I pause, trying to find words that won’t make her lose her mind. “I’m thinking about what it feels like to be sixteen and scared and stuck with people who don’t give a shit about you.”
“Jesus, Eliana—”
“Sage has already lost so much. His mobility, his childhood. And now, Bastian, too, in a way. Because even if Bastian gets him back, the brother Sage knew doesn’t exist anymore.”
Yasmin’s arms loosen around me. “Don’t do this.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Bullshit. I can hear it in your voice. You’re already making excuses for him.”
“I’m not making excuses for Bastian,” I insist. “Really, I mean that. I still hate him. He’s a manipulative asshole who deserves every terrible thing that’s coming to him. But Sage…”
“Sage isn’t your responsibility.”
“I know that.”
“Do you? Because it sounds like you’re about to make him your responsibility anyway.”
Yasmin goes quiet, which is somehow worse than the yelling. I can feel her eyes on my face, reading every micro-expression I make. Then she sighs—not the frustrated kind, but the resigned one. The sound of someone watching a car crash in slow motion and knowing there’s nothing to be done about it.
“You’ve already decided, haven’t you?” she asks.
I want to argue, but I know without uttering a single word that it would just sound frail and stupid. “I haven’t decided anything,” I try anyway. “I’m just thinking through the options.”
“Uh-huh. And which option are you leaning toward? The one where you stay here safe with your best friend and your baby, or the one where you throw yourself back into Bastian’s nightmare?”
Again, I don’t answer.
Suddenly, I hear a strange noise. A soft scraping sound against the bottom of the door.
Yasmin goes stiff. “What was that?” She’s up in seconds, disentangling herself from me and bounding into the kitchen. There’s the rumble of a drawer and the shiiink of a knife being pulled out.
“Yas?”
“Stay there.”
More footsteps. I track her movement toward the door, imagining her brandishing a dull butter knife like it’ll save us from whatever midnight creature is lurking in the hallway outside of our apartment.
Her footsteps stop. “There’s no one here,” Yasmin declares after a moment. She starts to relax, until… “But wait—there’s something under the door.”
I hear her bend down, the soft grunt of effort. Then paper rustling.
“What is it?” I ask.
Another pause, longer this time. When Yasmin speaks again, her voice is wary. “It’s an address.”
My stomach drops. “What kind of address?”
“A motel, looks like. The Moonlight Inn, Route 41.” She’s quiet for a beat. “El, this is his handwriting, isn’t it? Bastian’s?”
I don’t need to see it to know she’s right. Of course he didn’t just leave when I told him to. He’s still out there somewhere, waiting.
“He’s there,” I murmur.
“Probably.” Yasmin’s footsteps return, and I feel her sink down beside me again. “But that doesn’t mean you have to go.”
She’s right. Like she said, I could stay here on this floor with my best friend and my unborn child and let Bastian figure out his own mess. I could crumple up that piece of paper and throw it away and never think about the Moonlight Inn again.
I could.
But we both know I won’t.