Chapter 46
1200words
A walk under the stars doesn't bring me clarity. It's a spontaneous decision, one made from a desperate need to recalibrate my emotions. I don't have a jacket on, and the night air scrapes over my skin, worming into my bones. It's awful, but it's still not enough to distract me from the chaos in my soul.
I should have apologized sooner. Or more enthusiastically. Regrets are useless. I can't escape them. The memory of her face, the way she shrank on the stairs, sends shame coursing through my soul. I kick the gravel on the path aimlessly as I wander through the grounds. I don't watch where I'm going because it doesn't matter.
The only place I want to be is at her side.
A sound reaches me. Looking up, I see that I've made it to the separate room on the other side of the mansion grounds. There's light emanating from the window, and wind carries the sound of multiple voices to me.
When I get closer, I recognize a few of my men through the glass. Nikolai, Iosif, and Mikhail are inside. They have glasses of something I suspect is vodka in their grip. Mikhail spills some when he slaps Nikolai on the back, laughing at some joke I can't hear.
Suddenly, all three of them cheer; they clink their glasses, swig them, then refill them to the brim.
They're having fun. This is what it looks like to be unburdened by your mistakes. Watching for a while, I pay attention to how friendly they are. I don't think I've allowed myself to have fun in a long time.
Misery cloaks me and I turn away, shuffling back to the mansion. The guards at the front door nod to me when I shrug by them. The stairs shake beneath my heavy footsteps until I reach my room. I want to slam the door, but I resist.
I'm upset … but I'm determined to keep my emotions under control.
Stripping my clothes off, I leave them in a pile on the floor. The mirror on the wall shines my image back at me. Twisting sideways, I drag my hand down the tattoo on my back. The church reminds me of my wedding. It reminds me of my sins, old and new.
The temptation to smash the mirror wells up in me. In a show of restraint, I turn the lights off, hiding the reflection instead. In nothing but my raven-black boxers, I crawl into my bed alone.
I've never noticed how quiet my room is. Camila has filled my nights with not just her warmth, but the gentle music of her breathing. It's funny to think that, for years, it was just me lying on my king-size mattress. I'd adjusted to being alone.
I don't think I can return to solitude anymore.
Not after her.
Clutching the blankets, I turn onto my right side, then my left. Nothing feels comfortable. I'm painfully aware of Camila's absence. It's my fault, I tell myself angrily. I pushed her too hard with my questions. In my attempt to understand her better, I made everything worse. Her refusal to come to me tonight is just another rung on my ladder of misery.
I shouldn't mope. My first duty is to the Bratva. I'd do them a disservice if I let anything slip by me. Camila switching from hot to cold is too suspicious to ignore.
What changed? I drill through my memory desperately. Did I do something? She said it was about the baby, but ... I don't believe it.
Part of me suspects her oddness has to do with her mother. Remembering how Camila was lingering in the hallway outside her room was what caused me to bring it up to her directly. But most importantly, she didn't deny it. It's still my best lead.
I should ask Katinka instead of Camila. She might be less resistant to questioning.
I start to sit up in bed before I quickly drop back down. Interrogating her mother at this hour won't endear Camila to me. I have to be patient.
I've never struggled with patience. I've been plotting and setting traps for years. Yet with Camila … there's a pressing need to know what caused this change.
Shutting my eyes, I work at making my muscles go slack. I have to relax. Sleeping is all I can do right now.
But what will I do tomorrow?
That's the issue. I'm adrift without a direction. I can summon Mila, but if she had news, she'd have come to me already. My brigadiers and boeviki are getting antsy with nothing to do. Everyone has been primed for action for months, if not longer. There's a strain in my muscles, as if I've run a marathon without the satisfaction of completing it.
My body can only take so much before it falls apart like a rag doll thrown in the washer on too many cycles.
Rest. Just try and rest. That's an intentional action. Cling to it.
Even a pathetic win like that might change my foul mood
I stare at the darkness behind my eyelids. Little curls of red and orange swerve into my line of sight. I watch them closely, focusing to distract myself from my jagged thoughts. It's pure effort not to get out of my bed. I'm too wired to fall asleep.
This is a damn waste of time.
But eventually, before I notice, I drift into blackness. Sleep comes for me with gentle hands. I don't fight it, not even when it begins to strangle me. Hands choke my throat; an explosion rings out in my ears. Snapping my eyes open reveals a terrible scene of blood and fire.
A scene I've relived a thousand times.
This nightmare isn't new, but it never gets easier. In front of me lies a body. She's contorted, knees to her chest, one arm splayed to the side. Long hair covers her face. Every strand is shiny with blood. The bullet holes in her stomach are still oozing blood.
Shaking with wretched tears, I cradle Kristina's body in my arms. She's already cold. The familiar nightmare plays out the same way every time. I hate how helpless I am to do anything but endure the pain.
'Kristina," I whisper hoarsely. Clutching her body closer, I shift her so I can look upon her face.
I hate the nightmare, and still … There's a perverse longing in knowing I get to see her, even if it's like this. But when I gaze upon the woman in my arms, it's not her face I see.
It's Camila.
Her lips are stained crimson. Her pale cheeks are already tinged with the blue shawl of death.
'No!" I stumble backward. 'No … how …"
I look down on her again, and the bullet holes have become stab wounds. The gashes are deep, thick blood coagulating even as it streams out of her. Everything is red. It saturates her long hair, which, for once, is hanging loose around her. I reach for her face.
That's when I see the weapon.
A bloody knife.
And I'm the one holding it.
