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It was not unusual for my uncle to be harsh and bitter sometimes. He’d almost lost a leg, after all, and had merely escaped sudden death from Liam’s hands. Then, there was old age. But I remained undeterred.
“I—”
“Let it go, Rafail.”
His words pricked me like sharp needles. And why the fuck would I do that? I wanted to bark, to fire numerous insults packed somewhere at the back of my head. To think that he thought he could demand that I do such a thing—to walk away like some cowardly dog with its tail between its legs.
I closed my eyes, took deep breaths, and opened them again.
His sudden request made no sense. Why would I turn a blind eye to the mess that scumbag made, and after years of trying to catch him? We had caught him in the act, exactly where we wanted him. There was no way I was going to let him go without a fight.
“Tebe sleduet otdoknut’, dyadya.” [You should rest, Uncle.]
“Rafa, listen to me...” I was shutting him down, and he knew it. “Let it go. That is the best option we have. I don’t hold anything against him. You don’t have to fish him out. All I want now is to move forward. What good will killing him do? It can’t change the past or the—”
“If you have decided to forgive, then I commend you for your bravery.” The breeze blowing through my hair was no longer cool. The warmth on my skin sparked even more fury than before. “This is my fight now; my revenge to take. And I swear Liam will pay.”
Without waiting to hear another word, I hung up.
“Trouble?”
I returned the phone to my pocket and backed away from the pool. “More like fun.”
Viktor sighed, excitement tingling in his voice as he padded behind me. “Finally. Destination?”
We walked past the patio and through the screen doors. “Somewhere close to downtown Denver, I think? But confirm it again, Viktor. We’re paying our guy an early visit.”
Chapter 5 – Juliana
Rule two: Always be prepared.
Liam’s favorite color was yellow. He’d told me so himself, eleven years ago, on his twenty-first birthday. When I asked him why he liked the unmanly color, his reason was the most simple and absurd thing I’d ever heard.
His first girlfriend loved yellow. Her name was Samantha Witherspoon. I didn’t remember her much, except for the fake red highlights in her hair and the frequent goth outfits. But I did remember that she crushed my cousin’s heart to pieces after he openly proposed his love to her on her eighteenth birthday.
It was the loudest rejection I’d ever witnessed. A combination of tears and, the primary highlight, her “Love is not for me” speech. (But that was a story for another day.)
This was not about twenty-one-year-old Liam or his crazy ex. This was about confirming my childhood suspicions about whether he had a thing for Ava or not.
“Hold it up. No, lower it a little bit.” I squinted, cradling her hands with mine and assessing the yellow sponge cake with a shimmering golden Happy 32nd metallic sign sticking out of it.
“Can't we just go and give it to him?” Ava whined with a pout that looked silly and didn't sit right on her face.
I eyed her. “This was your idea in the first place.”
“I know, I know. It’s just…Must I say—”
“Yes, you must say the speech we recited over a hundred times already. It’s the most important thing. That's the only way we’ll know for sure.”
She gaped, jaw slacked, with her green orbs almost bulging out of their sockets. “I thought this hideous sweater was the focus?” She blurted.
I huffed, letting go of her hands to cross my arms. “It's a vintage fleece sweater. It cost me an arm and a leg to buy it last year. It’s not hideous.”
It really wasn't. Today was one of those days when she looked like a slender, supermodel Merida—a much taller one. Her thick auburn hair, which she had pulled up into a sleek ponytail, contrasted beautifully with her yellow sweater, black skinny jeans, and ankle boots.
She could walk down the street with the cake box, and no one would ever guess that she had only eight followers on Insta.
“I'm burning up in this vintage tent.” She cursed under her breath, and I dropped my arms, choosing to ignore her rude comment.
