“But your ribs?—”
“Will be fine. I won’t bend over or try to lift these jerks. They don’t deserve more than a couple of kicks anyway.” Max steps over Pavel and starts doing just what he said.
My throbbing hand reminds me that the sooner we get this done, the sooner we can seek medical care.
“I’ll be quick.” Walking back inside the cave, I note that even more lights flickered on. Whatever system operates the eye scanner and door seems to still be functioning, albeit slowly.
The cave is bigger than I initially realized in the gloom, and clearly larger than Dimitri anticipated. A path cuts through the stalagmites along the back wall, and more illumination slices through the darkness.
That can wait, though.
First, I pick up the book I threw, smoothing out the bent pages. Then I head to the shelf I glimpsed on the way in, the one holding the journal with my mother’s handwriting.
With trembling fingers, I pull it free.
Dust billows out when I flip open the cover. A printed photo’s on the first page, adhered to the paper with crackling tape. In the picture, Mom cradles a baby in a christening gown.
Is that…me?
After reading the journal entry, I realize the infant is indeed six-month-old me in front of the family church.
Mom even wrote down a list of everyone who attended and what they brought, with check marks beside their names to confirm she sent thank-you cards.
I blink back the welling tears and flip the page. Each entry contains a photo, a few of them locks of hair.
This is a baby keepsake book. With every turn, I see myself growing up, with my mother, father, and more relatives at a dinner table.DedushkaPeter holding me with his fingers as I take a wobbly step. Birthday parties. Christmas mornings.
All the normal moments in a family filled with life and love. This family existed before Dimitri let his jealousy consume him. He destroyed the life I knew in some sick attempt at revenge I helped him enact.
A knot forms in the pit of my stomach, spurring me to put the journal down and grab the album Dimitri hurled at the wall. I skim through the pages, finding scattered, faded pictures of two young dark-haired boys around ten, give or take a few years. I recognize the solid jawlines and dark eyes. Roman’s and Mikhail’s soft, mischievous expressions stare back at me, nothing like the hard men they grew up to be.
I pick up more pages that reveal progressively older versions of the brothers. Finally, I encounter a photo of Mikhail holding an infant.
His face expresses wonder, terror, and absolute devotion. The caption reads,Mikhail Jr., 3 days old.
MJ. My cousin who died.
I flip forward to find another one of Roman holding MJ while Mikhail hovers behind him. In another, MJ sits in a high chair, laughing while Mikhail spoon-feeds him and Roman makes a goofy face.
I continue browsing until I come to my parents’ wedding.
My mother, radiant in a simple white dress and with flowers woven through her hair, emits pure joy as she grins at her groom while they dance. Roman. My father.
His hand rests on her waist and her arms coil around his neck as he gazes at her like she’s his entire world. I’ve never seen my father look so open and vulnerable.
In my memories, he’s hard, distant, and cunning. The Pakhan I thought killed her. The man I spent fifteen years loathing thanks to Dimitri’s manipulation.
For a moment, soul-aching sadness and loss consume me. I’m back in those bushes again, watching him race off into the night screaming my name.
This time, I’m mourning the father I tried to forget.
Who is Roman Kozlov? What’s he like after losing his wife and daughter and having to fight every day to keep his family safe?
My fingers skim over the photos as realization sparks through me. That’s what the Bratva really means.
Family.For the first time since childhood, I see them that way.
Tears sting the backs of my eyes, forcing me to set the remaining pages aside. I can take this with me, but for now, I need to focus on what else I can carry out of here.
