"You shot him?" she finally asks.
I nod.
Rafail didn’t make me dispose of the body.
I was a fucking wreck after that.
I couldn’t sleep.
Couldn’t eat.
My mother tried to have me committed, but Rafail intervened. She didn’t know the half of it.
I shake my head, laughing bitterly. “Started smoking then.”
“Did it help?” she asks quietly.
I look in her eyes. “Took the edge off.”
A flicker of something like understanding passes through her expression.
“Took years to find you,” I continue. “You know that.”
She swallows. “I know.”
“And it wasn’t until Semyon needed help and I went through Anya’s brother’s computer that I finally did.”
Her lips part slightly. “Because of the Irish.”
“Yeah.” My jaw tightens. “The Irish.”
I thought telling her this would be brutal. And it is. But somehow, saying it out loud makes it a little easier to bear.
I exhale. “Your turn.”
The memory of what I had to do has me fired up.
I need another target—one that ends in victory instead of crushing devastation.
For a moment, she doesn’t speak. Then she lets out a slow breath like she’s bracing for impact. "I think I need a shot. Or drugs."
I smirk. "I can arrange that.”
"That… would actually be really good," she says.
I nod, walk over to my desk, and pull out one of the joints I keep for special occasions. I don’t smoke often, but sometimes, it helps. I like sharing one with her.
I light up, take a slow drag, and bring it over to her.
I pass it to her, watching as she presses it to her lips. She inhales deeply, holds it for a moment, then exhales slowly.
Tendrils of smoke curl through the air. The sweet, smoky smell is the only one I can handle.
We pass it back and forth in silence.
The flicker of fire.
The ring of smoke.
