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“Raymond D’Artello must die,” I read aloud, “he stands in our way against the Lanzzare.” I look at Eden. “It’s Ippolit’s handwriting, not Gennady’s.”
Frowning, she runs her finger over the damning passage. “Why would Ippolit write in your father’s journal?” Her eyes widen as she looks at me. “Doesn’t this prove that they knew about your father’s journals back then?”
The revelation dries my throat, but the words come from Eden’s mouth. “Your father didn’t know that they knew.”
“But my father would’ve seen that entry,” I argue.
“Maybe it wasn’t written for your father to see,” she suggests.
Memories flood my mind. Larissa warned me about the brigadiers, her beautiful face marred with worry. Zhanna guided me with riddles, her enigmatic expression insistent as she spoke. And finally, Vito’s words about their actions, none of them good, echo through my mind.
“Have I been a pawn, played by those I trusted most?” My hands grip the book tighter, and the paper crinkles under the strain.
Eden lays her hand firmly on my arm, and instantly, her touch grounds me. “We need facts, no matter who it hurts. Don’t jump to conclusions just yet, or they’ll only explain them away later when you confront them.” She goes to the desk and returns with a pad and pencil. “We’ll piece each fact together like a jigsaw puzzle.”
We pore over the pages and copy down passages verbatim. Slowly, a rough timeline of the events six months before Matvei’s death emerges.
“Read this entry.” I point to several lines discussing the Lanzzare. The brigadiers, along with Zakhar, discovered a major scam operated by D’Artello. Minuscule amounts of shipments were being stolen, not only from the Bratvas but also from other Mafias. Worthless amounts on their own, but combined, it equaled a fortune.
“There’s no disagreement that D’Artello had to be stopped,” I tell her. “But there’s something off about how it was supposed to happen.”
Sighing, Eden pushes her hand through her hair. “And what happens next is torn out of the book.”
I reach for Eden, placing my hands on her shoulders and massaging the tightness out of them. She tips her head back, letting me dig my thumbs into the tight knots. She rolls her neck, and her moans are tempting. I take advantage of the stretch of bare skin, and my lips linger, kissing.
Eden catches her breath. “We have to keep going, Nikolai.”
I stare into her golden hazel eyes. “We’ll find the truth. No matter who it hurts.”
No matter who it hurts.I close my eyes and clear my mind of all the chatter driving me crazy. I’ll let the evidence in these journals decide who is guilty. But the most damning part is revealed after the torn pages.
It’s not what is written but how it is written.
Gennady’s writing becomes shorter, less detailed, and more and more days are skipped after that fateful day all those years ago.
The journal betrays something my father kept hidden from me my entire life: that he became detached and withdrawn after Matvei’s death.
But the final blow came on the day of my mother’s suicide.
There’s only a single line—My darling chrysanthemum wilted, all because of me.
I push the journal away and stand. I walk away from the couch and stare out the window onto the city my mother loved as much as I do.
“I never believed he loved her,” I whisper, and my breath clouds the glass.
Eden stands up and joins me. “Isn’t it better to know than to never find out?” she asks.
Holding her hands together, she stares at me anxiously as dread changes how she sees me. She doesn’t come any closer, waiting to see what I will do.
I don’t dare tell her again that I will protect her. Who am I protecting her from? I don’t know anymore. I take one step closer as if approaching a skittish animal—a doe wandering out of the woods. I take Eden’s hand and press it to my lips, and instantly, her shoulders relax as a small smile appears on her lips.
“We’ll find the truth,” I repeat her words, and she hugs me.
We’ll find the truth.No matter who I have to hurt.
We return to the couch and immerse ourselves in the search, reading every word written on each page as the hours slowly pass.
Eden’s keen eyes catch something I’ve missed. The pages in the lead-up to my father’s death have also been torn out. She runs her fingertips over the page and suddenly holds it up against the light as if seeing something that isn’t there.
