Page 4 of Captured By the Masked BRATVA
The silence stretches again, but it isn’t empty this time. It’s full of everything we can’t undo.
He moves to the window, staring out at the city lights. “You make it sound like you expect me to understand.”
“I don’t,” I say softly. “Even if you did, it doesn’t change what happened.”
His reflection shifts in the glass, a tall, motionless shadow. “I came here to kill you.”
“I know.”
“You’re not afraid.”
“I was, once.” I let the words settle. “Now I’m just tired.”
He turns back to me. Something in his expression has changed. It’s still sharp, still dangerous, but touched with confusion. I can almost feel the battle inside him: the need to punish, the need to finally stop hurting.
For a long moment we stand there in silence, two people bound by the same ghost.
Artem
Her words land like blows, but they don’t leave the wounds I expected. They don’t fuel the rage. They hollow it out.
For months I’ve imagined this moment. I thought hearing her speak about that night would make everything sharp again. I thought I’d feel justice in the sound of her voice breaking. But standing here, all I can feel is the exhaustion in her eyes, the tremor she tries to hide.
I turn toward the window, needing distance. The city sprawls beneath us, a river of lights bleeding into the dark. In the glass, her reflection looks pale and still, hands clasped in front of her like she’s already confessed to a priest.
I remember the call that night, my father’s voice, the way the world tilted when I realised my little brother was gone. The rage that came after was the only thing that kept me breathing. Revenge was easy; it gave me a shape, a direction. But now the shape feels wrong.
“You were there,” I say, quieter than before.
She nods. Her voice is a whisper. “I tried to stop it.”
The image I’ve carried of her, the spoiled girl who watched without remorse, crumbles too easily. I think of Lev, the way he could draw softness out of people just by listening. Of course he would have seen something in her. Of course he would have stayed out there talking to her in the dark.
“I hated your family,” I say, the truth stripped bare. “Every day since that night.”
“I know.”
Her calmness infuriates me, but it also unravels me. “And you think that changes now?”
“No,” she says. “I think you needed to tell me.”
I look at her then, really look. She isn’t defending herself. She isn’t pleading. She’s just standing there, bearing the weight of everything I throw at her.
I should end this. I should reach for the gun I left in the drawer, finish what I came here to do. But my hand doesn’t move.
Instead, I hear myself asking, “What was he saying to you? Before it happened.”
She hesitates. “Something about an argument he had had with someone. I can’t remember the details because of what came after. It’s like my brain is punishing me for what happened.”
The words steal the air from my lungs.
The argument.
Music school.
He wanted to go to music school and I told him his place was with the family.
I drag a hand through my hair, trying to force back the ache in my throat. “He died for nothing,” I say.
