Page 57 of Hold the Line

“What did you do to Cole?” I ask.

He blinks at me slowly. “What?”

“Cole. What did you do to him?”

A smile crawls across his face.

“Hired four good Russian boys,” he murmurs. “Told them to teach the little whore a lesson and remind you who you belong to.”

The rage inside me turns white, but my hand remains steady as I pour.

“Who you really are,” he adds, almost proudly. “My son.”

He drinks without being ordered now, his body following the pattern even while his mind begins to fail. By the time the third bottle is half-empty, his chin is resting against his chest and every breath sounds like something dragging through water.

I set the bottle on the table. “You know what lesson I learned?”

His eyes struggle to focus on me.

“I learned that you do not deserve to breathe anymore.” I lean forward, resting my forearms on my knees. “And now you will learn that nobody is coming to mourn you.”

Understanding clears the fog for one brief moment. His eyes widen, and he tries to stand, but his arms cannot support him. He rises only a few inches before collapsing into the chair again, his shoulder striking the side with a dull thud. “Viktor,” he rasps. “Son…”

His body jerks, the first convulsion small enough to resemble a shiver. The second folds him forward. A horrible wet sound catches in his throat before vodka and bile spill from his mouth, coating the front of his shirt.

He tries to inhale and chokes instead. His hands claw at his throat and then at the arms of the chair. One leg kicks outward, striking the coffee table hard enough to send his glass to the floor, where it shatters beneath the wet, desperate noises coming from his mouth.

I rise but make no move to help him.

The air turns sour as he coughs and gags, every failed attempt to breathe drawing more fluid into his airway. When his eyes find mine, recognition has replaced the arrogance. He understands why I came and what I have done.

His mouth works several times before a sound emerges. “Viktor… please…”

I set my glass beside the half-full bottle and bend close enough for him to hear me over the failing rattle in his lungs. “You always said I would never be anything without you,” I tell him. “Look at you now.”

Another seizure arches his back away from the chair before he collapses. The choking grows quieter after that, reduced to weak, wet sounds that slow with every breath he cannot take. His hand reaches toward me, trembling in the space between us, but I leave it there.

His gaze remains locked on mine until the panic drains from it. His chest rises once, stops, and makes one final attempt before becoming still.

I wait before checking his neck for a pulse. There is nothing beneath my fingers except the cooling skin of the man who spent decades trying to destroy everything bright enough to make him feel small.

The apartment smells of cheap vodka, vomit, and death. I look at what remains of Sergei Petrov and find no triumph in it, only a quiet certainty that the threat hanging over my mother and Cole is gone.

For most of my life, fear followed me from room to room, a shadow waiting for the moment my father decided to reach out and hurt someone again. Now my mother will never have to look over her shoulder, and Cole will never have to wonder whether another attack is coming because of me.

I leave the apartment as it is and pull the door shut behind me. The old stairwell remains silent as I descend, the yellow lights flickering above my head, and when I step outside, the cold strikes my face hard enough to make my eyes water.

The light in my father’s window remains on as I turn away and begin walking back toward Cole’s apartment.

I need to clean what they did to his home, even though I do not intend to let him stay there alone again. The thought of Cole returning to a place where men hurt him makes something dark and protective twist beneath my ribs. He will come home with me for as long as it takes, and perhaps longer if I have anything to say about it.

I expected guilt to find me somewhere along the walk, but all I feel is relief. Perhaps that makes me a monster. It does not matter. I would become far worse before allowing anyone to touch Cole again.

When I reach his apartment, I step inside and begin restoring what I can. I sweep the broken glass, right the furniture, and gather the photographs, books, and ridiculous little objects Cole collects because anything bright or shiny catches his attention. Piece by piece, the room begins to resemble a home again.

Whether I repair this place or move him permanently into mine, he will not be alone.

Iwake up to the sound of voices talking around me. My eyes open slowly, and the first thing I see is Viktor’s face, close and concerned. Then I realize I am not in my apartment. I am in Viktor’s house, in his bed, surrounded by people. Viktor is sitting on the edge of the bed, Damian and Elias are standing near the doorway, Lena is hovering by the window, and Viktor’s mother is sitting in a chair in the corner, watching me with soft, worried eyes.