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Yet the senior officers investigating the matter didn’t take a stand for me. Circumstances were questionable, to quote my superior. A man will always be a man, he’d said. And I’d felt so betrayed, so utterly brutalized by the attack that all I’d wanted was to put the incident behind me. I told myself I’d get revenge on my attackers later, when I wouldn’t be as likely to get arrested for their deaths, but then Hanna’s health worsened, and I got my leukemia diagnosis.
As illogical as it was, it felt like the universe was punishing me for something, and I chose to focus on survival in lieu of vengeance, on paying the bills with my deadly skills rather than seeking revenge on those who wronged me.
“I want them to suffer as much as you did,” Yan says, bringing me back to the present. “To feel every ounce of what you felt, so they’ll never forget.”
I want that too, so badly. Maybe that later is finally here. But no, Yan sniffing around my former unit is too dangerous for Gergo. As much as I crave vengeance, I need to dissuade Yan from this. “Those men are powerful. Most of them are still in the Special Forces, and the rest joined the government ranks.”
He chuckles. “Is that supposed to scare me?”
“You’ll be making unwanted enemies.”
“With as many as I have, what’s a few more?”
Despite the situation, I smile at his light tone. “I wish it were that simple.”
“It is.” He drags a finger over my lips. “I’m not going to force you to talk, but I’m going after them, with or without your relay of the event. I have a good imagination. I’ll put it to use when I decide what dues to dish out. Believe me, it’s going to get very creative.”
I swallow. “It’s not worth it.” Or at least that’s what Gergo told me after the attack. He convinced me revenge wasn’t worth getting arrested or killed over, especially with my grandmother relying on me.
“The fuck it’s not. You’re worth it.”
The words hit a bull’s eye in my heart. “Take a good, hard look, Yan. I’m not a good person.”
“You’re mine, and I like you fine how you are.”
“I’m a killer for hire.”
“You’re the closest thing to perfect I’ve seen in this fucked-up world.”
Baffled, I stare into his eyes. “You don’t mean that.”
“Don’t tell me what I mean or don’t. I don’t mince my words.”
No, he doesn’t. You’re the closest thing to perfect. If I didn’t know better, I’d say Yan cares about me.
He picks up the check. “Let’s go.” When he helps me to my feet, all traces of his gentleness vanish. “I want to swing by your friend’s place to see how she’s advancing with our painting.” And just like that, he’s back to being the dangerous man Gergo warned me about.
24
Mina
We get back to Yan’s place in the late afternoon, after he’s assured himself our fraudulent painter is on schedule with the Salvator Mundi replica. Ilya is lounging on the couch with a beer. He informs us Anton is picking up the sniper rifles from their supplier. The apartment looks surprisingly clean. Ilya must’ve been busy. I hope that’s why he looks so disgruntled and not because the air between the brothers is far from cleared.
Yan announces he has private business to take care of. While I hang the dress in Yan’s closet, I hear him asking Ilya if he’ll get it right this time—it meaning making sure I don’t escape.
Ilya answers with a grumbled, “Fuck you.”
Great. So the air isn’t cleared, after all.
When Yan is gone, I make myself useful and keep out from under Ilya’s feet by doing the laundry and pondering what to cook for dinner. However, I’m too distracted for even such a mundane decision. I can’t stop thinking about Gergo’s daring appearance and Yan’s planned revenge on my assailants. I worry about Hanna, too. I wish I could call her.
After going through the contents of the fridge for a third time, I slam the door with a sigh. It’s useless.
“What do you feel like having for dinner?” I ask Ilya.
He crosses his ankles on the coffee table. “Whatever.”
“That’s not helpful.” Sighing again, I tidy the lounge by picking up the old magazines and Ilya’s empty beer bottle that’s leaving a wet ring on the wooden coffee table top.
“Mina,” he exclaims when I straighten.
I give a start. “What?”
Pointing at my face, he jumps to his feet. “Your nose. It’s bleeding.”
“Shit.” I press my free hand under my nose so I don’t get blood on Yan’s immaculate mohair carpet and rush to the kitchen where I dump the bottle and magazines in the recycle trashcan before grabbing a kitchen paper towel. Tilting my head back, I wait for the bleeding to stop.
“Let me see that,” Ilya says, coming up next to me.
