Page 67 of The Russian Retribution

I frown deeply. “The hell are you talking about?”

Hazel lets the bottle rest in her hands, then she tilts it toward me and tucks one thick curl behind her ear. “Look, I’m not one to get too involved. It’s part of the rules, you know that.”

“Sure.” I nod.

“But from what I can tell, traditions are bullshit. They’re old for a reason. Now, I’m not saying they’re all bad. After all, it’s tradition that keeps this place running with Irish, Russians, and Italians walking through my door each night. So some tradition?” She kisses the air. “Perfection. But you? And Anastasia? The shit her father got up to was twisted. It’s an open secret. But those traditions are only traditions because they benefited those people at the time. That doesn’t mean they should remain in place forever. Honestly, it sounds likeAnastasia has a good head on her shoulders and she’s well on her way to creating a new era for Russian blood.”

“Sure, but that doesn’t change what she did.”

“Doesn’t it?” Hazel’s eyes narrow. “If you were in her shoes, would you have done it the right way? If you faced down the people who kidnapped and killed your sister, would you follow the rules laid out by the family?”

“No,” I reply immediately.

“Exactly. Because I guarantee a rule like that is only in place to stop people from getting rid of shitty leaders. Claiming you need proof like some kind of court case works in some places, I’m sure. But Sergey?” Hazel’s face twists.

“For someone who remains impartial, you sure have some opinions.”

“I’ve heard a lot of shit in my time.” She shrugs. “My point is, traditions benefit a certain criteria of people, and Anastasia, bless her heart, is going against that. And you’re sitting here, draining me dry, because you’re a coward.”

“Ouch.”

“It’s true!” She swats at me with a smile. “You already know what you have to do.”

“I don’t,” I insist. “And if this is your advice, it’s cryptic and it sucks. How the fuck am I supposed to choose between my father and the woman I love?”

“The woman you love, huh?” Hazel lifts one dark brow. “You sure about that?”

I pause.

Do I love her?

Is that why this is so fucking hard? Why seeing her face in my mind makes me feel like someone is trying to scoop out my insides with a hot poker?

Because I love her, and I hurt her. Badly.

“Yes,” I say after a moment of thought. “I do. I’ve never loved someone before, not truly. Not like this. But I do. I love her.”

“I know you do.” Hazel smirks. “You just needed to say it out loud so you’d understand.”

“Understand what?”

“Fuck me.” Hazel laughs loudly then, tipping her head back. “Men are so dumb sometimes, I swear.”

Warmth prickles at the back of my neck as my mind struggles to catch up to what on earth Hazel is talking about. “Huh?”

“Honey.” She fixes me with a serious look. “You’re so tangled up that you don’t even see it.”

“See what?”

“You’re not here drinking because you don’t know what to do. You’re here because you’ve already made your choice and you feel guilty about it. And as much as it’s good for my business, alcohol isn’t going to make that guilt any lighter. After all, if you had made any other choice, you wouldn’t be here.”

She’s right.

Of course she’s right.

Underneath the churning nausea in my gut, the pain in my tight chest, and the exhausted rush of thoughts in my mind, the truth is alarmingly clear.

I’m not here because I can’t decide where my loyalty lies.

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