xxxiv | blessings and honor
(nobody panic), just a slight disclaimer: mention of suicide and suicide attempt.
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There's something peaceful between the state of unconsciousness and reality. Where the world blurs as you dance between the lines. You feel like your floating, yet you're also grounded by the weight of the person you sleep beside. Their hand across your stomach, across your chest. A leg tossed over yours as you unconsciously intertwined throughout the night, paired with the blanket, trapping you between it and the mattress.
It's a place where problems no longer exist. Where arguments and stress are forgotten. Where feelings of anxiety and depression are foreign. If someone asked me to describe peace, I would choose this. And if someone asked me to describe perfection, I would choose him.
Liam stirs beside me. His hand slides down to my waist, where he provides a gentle squeeze. I've learned to translate it as his nonverbal good morning, where we both acknowledge that each other is awake, yet manage to preserve the quiet. He's always the first one up, the first one out of bed, and this morning is no different.
He stretches when he gets out of bed, the muscles in his back rippling with every faint move. He checks his phone for any notification of significance, then pulls it from the plug. He leaves it bedside before heading to the bathroom, shutting the door. That's usually when I close my eyes, hoping to will my body back between those blurred lines, where peacefulness is within reach.
I hear water running. He washes his face, droplets of water rushing past his wrists, soaking his beard. He brushes his teeth. The toilet flushes soon after. He skips a shower this morning, having shared one with me last night. The razor never cuts on, underutilized, and abandoned now that he maintains a full beard.
I greet him when he steps out the bathroom. A smile playing on my lips as our eyes meet for the first time this morning. He looks refreshed, ready to take on the day, while I drag a hand down the side of my face and groan. He smiles back, laughter on his lips as he heads into the walk-in closet.
He re-emerges with a white dress shirt hanging off his broad shoulders. One by one, button by button, he secures them, leaving the last two untouched. He situates himself before the mirror, locks eyes with me, and smiles again. Liam pulls a pair of black dress pants over his hips, loops the belt, tucks his shirt in, and secures them. The black suit jacket follows, the application as easy as the shrug of his shoulders.
His question finally breaks the silence. "How did you sleep?"
I fight a yawn and sit up, the comforter once clutched to my chest, falling to a puddle at my waist. "Good. You?"
Liam's nod in the mirror indicates the same. He slowly works a thin chain around his neck when he asks, "What was the longest you ever stayed awake?"
It takes longer to think than usual. "Just over twenty-four hours, I think. Why?"
He turns around, now securing a silver watch on his wrist. "The flight to Russia is eleven hours. Plus jetlag. I've told everyone to pack a small duffel bag, but truth is, they won't need it. We hit the tarmac, go to the Rostov estate, handle business, and make the eleven-hour flight back. I just want you to know what you're getting yourself into. The people we're going with have been trained to stay awake for three to four times that long."
"I can do it," I say confidently. "Isn't this how the military teaches people how to swim? By tossing them in the deep end?"
Liam crosses the room with a smile, nearing the edge of the bed. The kiss to my lips is quick. The one to my cheek lingering a little longer. "I'm not worried about you. Not for a second." He pulls away enough to look me in the eyes, a hand finding my leg through the thick comforter. "The plane leaves at nine. Two hours. I have some things to take care of before we go, and I'll be riding from the estate to the airport. But I'll be there, waiting for you."
I nod. Another kiss.
It isn't until Liam begins to walk away does my first question hit me. "Wait, can you even fly into Russia?"
He stops, eyes scanning our shared vanity for his favorite cologne. "Money gives you access to everything," is all he says as he applies the scent. He returns to his side of the bed, pockets his phone, and proceeds with his exit.
"How many planes are going?"
"A lot," He responds over his shoulder.
"How many planes do you even have?"
His hand grips the doorknob, and he pauses, trying to articulate the best response. He looks over his shoulder, a curl to his lips as a chuckle slips past them.
"Oh, Faith, do you still doubt my wealth?"
He's gone, and I'm left with nothing but a smile.
There are some mornings I enjoy getting ready alone and this is one of them. Liam is always the best distraction, but a morning routine that can take fifteen minutes without him, sometimes stretches as long as forty-five with him. The simple task of washing our faces and brushing our teeth always tends to lead to laughter, to toothpaste smearing the mirror, and water, everywhere. Typically caused by him jolting me awake with a quick splash. Me, always returning the favor. It, as always, leads to chaos.
And that's just our time spent in the bathroom. We spend half of the time it would take to get dressed cleaning the bathroom, sharing brief kisses in between. It doesn't happen often, but more-so when he joins me than when he doesn't. Getting dressed can take even longer. Because although I am more of an admirer from afar, silently watching Liam dress, I've come to learn that he prefers being more up close and personal when it comes to me.
I smile at the memories and quickly wash my face, brush my teeth, and use the bathroom. I let my pajamas puddle on the floor before climbing inside for a quick, morning shower. I temporarily discard of my dirty clothes and slip inside the closet for fresh ones. The stretchy pair of black jeans are tight enough to secure a comfortable fit for the thigh holster to be situated later. The matching, short-sleeved shirt clinging just enough to provide a secure fit to the bulletproof vest that'll be applied later.
The nausea doesn't hit me until I reach the doorway.
I would never make it to the toilet in time. All I can do is close my eyes, hold onto the doorframe, and steady myself until it passes. It does, but it leaves behind a feeling that almost feels foreign—at least for the last few days. Hunger. I make a mental note to grab something to eat before the clock strikes nine.
My destination is Dominic's bedroom door. It was only a little after seven in the morning, but after hearing the screams and trash talk that echoed out of Carmen and Federico's shared room last night during a Mario Kart tournament with Rosalie that ran late into the night, I knew Rico hadn't waken up in time to check on his brother. I could do it for him.
The sound of Crixus's voice momentarily sidetracks me as I walk past his bedroom door. He's humming a song, clearly off tune and off key as he sits comfortably in a chair angled towards the television, cleaning one katana at a time. I don't smile until I see Veleno lying on the side he hadn't managed to hurt, eyes glued to the early morning cartoons that play on the mounted television.
I'm about to leave them to their cartoon watching when Veleno mutes the television. Crixus glances up quickly, his song ending abruptly. "Oh, I'm sorry, was I singing too loud—"
Veleno doesn't look at him until his question has been delivered. "Will you ever tell Rico what we talked about?" The assassin tucks the remote at his side, sliding a hand underneath the pillow as he watches Crixus stir, uncomfortable. "About your fear?"
Crixus thinks briefly, his cloth running down the length of his sword and back. His answer doesn't surprise any of us, but one part of his statement does. "No, Veleno."
"What did you call me?"
Crixus glances up, immediately recognizing his out-of-character mistake.
Veleno doesn't miss a beat. He pushes himself up and swings his legs over the edge of the mattress, wincing as he does so. "This bothers you, doesn't it?"
"Yes, it bothers me." Crixus sighs out, visibly frustrated. "I'm an assassin who is absolutely terrified of guns, so yes, yes, and yes again. It bothers me. And I've tried to get over it. Mom and dad have tried to help me so many times, but even when they're there, I still panic. I don't know how to get over it. I know you said I should tell him, but I can't. He'll think I'm stupid."
Veleno says what I'm thinking. "He won't think you're stupid and if you think he would laugh at you, he wouldn't."
But what Crixus doesn't know is that Federico is already aware. Veleno only poising the question to see if Crixus would ever take his secret to Federico, personally. My assumption from his response suggests he never will. There's an opportunity for the oldest assassin to press the issue, to try and convince Crixus that trusting his brother—or any assassin he works with in the future—is important for not only developing a friendship, but for saving his life. But he doesn't.
"Can I ask you another question?"
Crixus makes a face. "Am I always this annoying? Because if so, I am so sor—"
Veleno doesn't wait. "Are you going to quit?"
"What?"
Veleno shifts, reaching for his bandaged side as he does so. Crixus's eyes fall to the bandage, before lifting to meet the intense look on his friend's face. "The OA doesn't exist anymore, Crixus. I know that woman, your friend, said she wants to start it over, that it won't be the same, but you don't have to tell me that you and your parents' aren't going back. I can tell. And I overheard your parents' talking last night. Something about Massachusetts. They have friends' out there that can help them get back on their feet, settle down and get a home, jobs. They even mentioned you going to school, but that it was your choice. And even joked about supporting you at your gymnastic classes, or whatever. But Massachusetts? It's a long way from California."
Crixus's eyes narrow. "I know where Massachusetts is, Veggie. It's near Florida."
"No it's—" Veleno stops himself, eyes darting to quickly read the kid's body language. "You know it's not near Florida. You're messing with me."
The boy's shrug tells the truth. He pulls his legs off the floor and curls into the chair, shrinking himself as he thinks of a response. "I don't know. I hated this," Crixus finally admits. "I hated everything about doing what I did for the OA before I left, before they made me leave to go find Rico. I hated it there, and I told my parents' that I would do anything to go to school like a normal person and take gymnastic classes. But then I met you, and Rico, and...quitting would mean losing you, and him."
Veleno shakes his head, slowly, in disagreement. "You would not lose us. You have to do what's best for you."
"I don't know what's best for me."
"Quit."
Crixus looks up, the sureness of Veleno's words enough to gather his undivided attention. The boy begins to stutter, "How could you—"
"Crixus, I love you," Veleno reassures. "And I don't want to see you turn out like your brother, or me. You have a chance to get out, to do something you might really love, even more than jumping around with those sharp ass swords in your hands. You know I care about you. I only want what's best for you and ultimately, it's your decision. But if you don't take the opportunity now, it will be too late. Because there will come a time when there is no going back."
Crixus eyes Veleno carefully, only one question on his mind. "When the time comes where there's no going back, will I know?"
"You'll know."
As Crixus's silence drags on, Veleno unmutes the television. I push myself away from the door, a weird heaviness on my chest after listening to their conversation. But before I turn away, Crixus scoots to the edge of his chair.
"Can I lay with you?"
Veleno's response is nonverbal. The assassin scoots over as the little one climbs onto the mattress. Silence welcomes them both as Veleno turns the volume up on the television, the two prepared to watch the Road Runner outsmart Wile E. Coyote and his ACME products. The laugh the two share as the program starts in synchronous. A sound no choir could ever compete with.
The walk to Dominic's door is a short one. He doesn't respond to the first knock. Or the second. I twist the knob he's been instructed to keep unlocked and stick my head inside. The bed is empty, the room dark, but the light that drifts out from underneath the bathroom door suggests his whereabouts. I step into the room and flip on the nightstand light and wait. A minute goes by. Then another.
"Dominic?"
He doesn't answer.
I move across the room and lean against the bathroom door, an ear pressed against the wood. Nothing. I don't know if the words that I mumble underneath my breath are in prayer or preparation. I open the door.
Dominic sits with his back against the bathroom wall, legs pulled up to his chest. His hands rest on his knees, his head hangs forward, and his eyes seem to be closed. The toilet makes its quiet hum, a sign that it was just recently flushed. The bottle of pills sits on the countertop, empty.
I pick up the pill bottle that was once full and my eyes blur. "Please tell me you flushed them."
It takes everything he has left to lift his head, to focus on me. His eyes are bloodshot. I look at the bottle again, desperately hoping the pills will reappear and Dominic will not be forced to tell me what he did with them.
He swallows slowly, and it's when he looks away from me that my stomach drops. "I took them. Rico forgot them in my room, and I took them all. I changed my mind. Threw them up."
I can barely get the words out. "What changed your mind?"
His eyes find mine. "Knowing Rico would have blamed himself forever."
It's the way I want to cuss him out. To yell at him and tell him he's insane for trying what he did. To tell him that what he said reveals everything. He backed out because he didn't want to ruin Federico's life but had no concern for his own. But I have no fight in me. And nothing I yell will solve his problem. I feel defeated, and I can only wonder how he feels when I wipe at the tears slip out the corners of my eyes.
"Please don't cry," His plea is soft, gentle. I can't even remember when he stopped sounding like himself. Something about his tone, his pitch, is different.
I let out a breath to soothe the shaking of my voice and state the obvious. "You need help."
"I know."
It takes him longer than it should to rise to his feet, and he's unsteady when he gets there. I reach for him, wrap an arm around his thin waist, and together we walk back into the bedroom. He all but collapses onto the unmade bed as his door opens. Federico steps inside, still wiping sleep from his eyes. I slap the empty pill bottle in his hand and return my focus to helping Dominic climb between his sheets.
"Gra—" Dominic winces and sits up, just as Federico hands him a bottle of water from the nightstand. He takes a swig and lowers his head back to the pillow, a thought passing before he continues, "Mom came in last night. She wanted to talk. They found a rehab facility for me to go to. She and dad, I guess. A three-month program. In Florida."
"When does it start?" Rico asks.
"Sometime in the next week or so," Dominic answers. He is quick to elaborate, "Christmas, or Christmas Eve, something like that."
"You should go," I reassure.
His response comes out in a weak breath. "I can't. I can't."
"Why can't you?" Federico lowers himself to the mattress, angling his body just enough to look his brother in the eyes. His voice is gentle, his words dancing on the edge of a whisper. It's soothing, comforting.
"Rico, it's Florida."
Federico fights back a laugh. "Dom, we aren't relying on horse and buggy anymore. I could get to you in about five hours if you needed me to."
Dominic opens his mouth to counter, to say the first thing that comes to his mind, attempting to put up a valid argument. You can see the fight leave him, his shoulders relaxing as he sinks further into the mattress. Whether Dominic was truly worried about the distance between Florida and California, I'll never know, but as he squeezes his eyes shut and fights back tears, I know what he says next is the truth. At least part of it.
"I'm scared to leave, and I'm scared to come back," He admits. "I'm scared to miss out. I'm scared I'm going to come back, and everyone will be laughing and talking about something I didn't get to experience. I think, in a weird way, I'm scared to be forgotten. That's why. That's why I don't want to go."
I watch Federico, one hand reaching for Dominic's leg above his thick duvet, the other rotating the empty pill bottle in his palm. "Dominic," He finally says, "From the day you leave to the day you get back, I would give you play-by-play of every moment you missed if it meant making you feel better."
"I would like that," Dominic says, and there's no doubt in my mind that he's serious. He reaches for Federico when his brother goes to stand. Dominic's eyes begin darting between me and Rico. "Wait. You're leaving soon, right?"
"About an hour," Rico tells him.
"Come back," Dominic's plea comes out in a whisper. "I mean, come back, but before you leave..." He tells Rico, "Even if I'm asleep, wake me up. I want to say goodbye. You and Crixus."
Rico frowns. "Not mom and dad?"
Dominic repeats himself. "You and Crixus."
Federico agrees as Dominic lowers his head back to his pillows, his eyes closing immediately. We make our way out the room, making sure to keep his door slightly open. Rico lifts the empty pill bottle as soon as we hit the hallway, his frown deepening.
"What did he do with the pills?"
To tell Rico the truth would hurt him, distract him during a time that doesn't need distractions. He would worry about Dominic the entire flight to Russia, the entire fight in Russia, and the entire flight back. His mind would be here, his body there—a disconnect that never ends well, certainly not for an assassin. I don't lie. I don't tell him the truth. My answer, lying somewhere in the middle.
I pluck the pill bottle from his hand and offer a comforting smile. "He flushed them," I tell him, and walk away.
Sometime in the past, Federico would have called out to me. He would have spotted it. My tell. He might've pointed out the fluctuation in my voice or the change in my expression that would occur anytime I wasn't fully truthful. In the past, he might have looked me in the eyes, and paired with his training and knowledge of me, called me back—waiting for me to tell him the truth. He doesn't call me back. It would be the first time I remember separating emotion and spoken word. The first indication of my disassociation.
Nausea hits me again on my way downstairs. I barely have the time to pull the hallway bathroom door closed, flipping on the light and the fan, before falling to my knees and gripping the edge of the toilet. Nothing comes up. And again, I'm reminded of the food that I haven't ate. I wash up quickly and push open the door, running directly into the one person I was on my way to go find.
Carmen turns the corner in a pair of Rico's sweatpants. I could have sworn they were still asleep from their long night, but here she stands, watching me silently over the brim of her mug. The visible steam drifts up into the air as she takes a slow sip. "I was hoping I got to see you before you all left—" She begins after pulling the mug away from her lips.
"I threw up, kind of."
Carmen frowns, pulls the mug back to her lips and sips again. "Okay, I'm not sure why you felt the need to—" It registers. Her eyes widen, and I know she loves me when she palms her scolding hot mug in one hand and grabs me with the other. She manhandles me into the nearest room, shuts the door, and leans her back against it. We're alone, but her whisper is harsh, "Are you pr—"
"No."
"Have you taken a t—"
"No."
"Do you—"
"No, Carmen."
She stares at me, her patience wearing thin. "Can I tal—"
"No."
She leans against the door in silence, her tea growing colder as time marches on. I fold my arms across my chest in defense, but slowly reposition them. I hug myself. Her irritation slowly fades, her concern growing as she watches me carefully, no longer focused on the drink in her hand.
Five minutes pass before Carmen lets out a sigh. I finally let her complete a full sentence. "Do you think you could be pregnant?"
My answer is so quiet, I barely hear it myself. "I don't know."
"Okay. When was the last time you and Liam did the thing?"
She knows the way she words the question would make me laugh. It did. "Last night. He used a condom."
"Before that."
I shrug aimlessly, trying to reach a memory that many others have already clouded over. "My birthday. Around my birthday or on my birthday. Something like that. And before you ask, no, we didn't use protection."
"So, about a month ago?"
My nod is confirmation to her question.
Carmen continues to grill. "Have you had your period?"
"No."
"Are you on the pill?"
"Not really, no."
Carmen takes another sip, but she fails to hide the smile that begins to pull her lips apart. She might not know it, but she practically glows when she's excited—her skin begins to shine, her smile radiant. It's impossible not to be drawn to her in a moment like that. And at any other time, I might've smiled with her, but all my stomach does is another flip.
"Why're you smiling?" I ask.
"Because I'm going to be an auntie."
"Carmen."
"Faith," She tilts her head at me, her smile fading slightly at the expression on my face. "If, and I mean if you're pregnant, everything will be okay. Liam is financially stable. I mean, his children's children children, will be set for life. You will never have to worry about a babysitter, you only have a couple hundred to choose from. He loves you. You love him. The man is about to get on his knee any day now and ask you to be his forever. So, why are you scared?"
I could go into it. Explain further. I don't. "Timing."
Carmen wants more, to understand my thought process, and a part of me feels bad when I don't provide it. She sighs. "Okay. You need to take a test."
"No."
"Liam would never let you go with them if he knew—"
"Which is why I'm not going to take it," I tell her.
It's an argument, a friendly one, that Carmen will never win. She glances down at her tea, lets a thought come to her, and looks up at me. "Tell me you'll take one when you get back."
I don't have time to respond.
"Good," She smiles, "I'll have three waiting for you."
Carmen leaves. I let a beat pass before exiting after her. I don't know how long I stand in the foyer, watching Rosalie. The little girl sits up excitedly on the sofa, unaware of the pair of eyes on her, as she claps along to something on the television. The screen is blurry for me, yet she has never been clearer. Her hair sits atop her head in a messy bun, a familiar looking bandana wrapped around her forehead. I blink away the tears. And smile.
Vincenzo doesn't sneak up on me. I could hear him, one step creaking while the other croaks underneath his weight as he descends them. He joins me at my side, and one glance up at him, at the bandana wrapped tight under his curls, tells me everything I need to know. Same color. Rosalie insisted on wanting to match with him.
We watch her quietly, together. "Did you believe Federico? When he said that Diavolo is your son?" I question Vince, "You haven't said much about it."
His response feels cold. "I don't know what to say."
I sneak a glance at him, hoping to catch something on his expression that his words will never be able to verbalize. "Do you believe it?"
Vincenzo looks directly at me. "I do."
We return our focus to Rosalie, whose laughter erupts from the room as Carmen scoots closer to her. I can't help but remember the smile on Carmen's face at the idea of me being pregnant, and I couldn't help but wonder just how excited Rosalie would be if I was. Vincenzo smiles, watching her watch television with Carmen at her side. She looks so happy, despite everything that's happened to her in the last few hours.
"I don't know how to say this..." Vincenzo starts, hesitantly.
"Just try," Is all I can ask of him.
"When you look at Federico, you can see me in him," Vincenzo starts, his voice low, all concentration necessary to hear him. "In his mannerisms, the way he talks, when he works—especially when he works because I gave him a piece of me when I trained him. He acts more like me than he does his own father. I can see how Liam looks at me. Jai, sometimes, did too. They see Michael. In a mannerism, a statement, a look. I spent so much time with Michael that I took a piece of him with me. So Diavolo or Gabriel might biologically be mine, but is he really mine? Or is he more Valentin than he is me?"
His eyes are on me. And when I catch them, I can't help but wonder if this is what the Russian soldiers saw the night Vincenzo's world came crumbling down. I wonder if the look that dances between the dark browns of his eyes, one resembling something close to fear, is what they saw. That's what I see. I want to answer his question, to provide him with some sort of peace—but the answer to his question can only come from one person. And I'm looking at him.
"We're going to do everything we can to bring him back," I whisper, "But you're the only one who can decide whether he's your son or not."
Vincenzo doesn't respond, but you can see the gears churning, the thought settling just as a screech rings out. Rosalie scoots off the sofa and flies in my direction, arms outstretched. She knocks me back a step, but I catch her in a hug. We spin, beautifully, before coming back to a stop. "I already said goodbye to Liam, but I wanted to say it to you, too. One day, I'll get to come with you."
"One day," I tell her with a smile. "What're you going to do while we're gone?"
"Me and Aunt Carmen are going to decorate for Christmas," Rosie says, excited. She tosses a thumb in Vincenzo's direction, her excitement wearing off quickly, "He can help too, I guess, but only for the things that I can't reach."
I try to hide the smile that slowly appears, caused by the look Vincenzo glances down at her with.
I put my hands on my knees and lean over, casually lowering my voice, yet allowing it to still be loud enough for Vince to hear. "Are you going to look after him while we're gone?"
"I'll protect him."
Her perfectly executed shot through the head of Nathaniel Rostov flashes through my mind again.
"I believe you."
She turns to Vincenzo, her hand reaching to take his. Rosalie leans her entire body weight in the direction of the living room, trying to drag him with her. "Can you come with TV. with me, please?"
"I'll be there in a second," He tells her. "Go hang out with Aunt Carmen."
We watch Rosalie skip back into the room. She bounces to a stop, turns back to offer Vincenzo a wave. He returns it. She smiles and plops down on the sofa. I turn to him. "You're not coming with us?"
He shakes his head slowly, unable to admit the limitations that the Russians caused him have yet to fully heal. "I'll leave it to the young people," Vincenzo glances at me with an encouraging smile, "But tell Valentin I said hi."
The remaining thirty minutes pass quickly. I spend it in our room, quietly filling a small duffle bag with only the most necessary clothes and toiletry items. I zip it quickly, grab my phone, and shut the bedroom lights off. I grab the doorknob, only looking back once. If I asked Liam, he would agree that somehow our bedroom has become our haven. Another home inside a home. Filled with memories only we share and laughter we cherish. It's become my favorite room in the entire house. I hope it stays that way.
Crixus and Federico step outside Dominic's bedroom, bags slung across their shoulders. Crixus has extra baggage, his hands clutching the handles of the bag that secures his katana's when he travels.
Rico catches my eye as I watch towards them, and they stall, waiting for me to catch up. "Grace and Anthony are meeting us at the airport. They rode with Liam from the estate."
"Sounds good."
We match strides, Crixus falling just a step behind us. "Do you think Dominic will be okay one day?" He asks us.
"I think so," Rico answers quickly, "I hope so."
"Good," Crixus responds. He picks up in pace, passing us and racing towards the top of the stairwell. He looks back, a smile on his face, "I hope he does too. I'd like to get to know him, the real him, one day."
Veleno waits for us at the bottom of the stairs, clutching a bag of his own. Tatum waits by the door, arms folded in front as he laughs at something Rosalie tells him. Veleno offers a fist bump to Crixus as he hops off the steps and to Federico as well. He reaches for my arm as soon as my foot touches the ground, pulling me half a step away from the others. Rosie rushes to Crixus, jumping and tossing her arms around him as Veleno lowers his lips to my ear.
"I meant to ask you yesterday, but where's Sav?"
Carmen and I look at each other simultaneously. Something in my eyes calls for help and she quickly excuses herself from Vincenzo's side and walks over. Veleno doesn't tell her to back away, but looks between her and me, eyebrows connecting.
"She left," I tell him.
"Without saying goodbye?"
Carmen picks up on the conversation quickly and lowers her voice to match his. "She said she didn't want to. To say goodbye to you. We tried to convince her to, but she insisted."
A second passes before he answers, "Okay." His response lacks something, but it isn't until he walks away that I recognize what it is. Emotion. And for just a second, I feel bad for Veleno, wondering how many goodbyes he was never given. But it makes me smile, he makes me smile, when he crosses the room and throws his arms around Vincenzo. They both laugh. Vince tells him something, and all I hear Veleno call him is dad.
"You two take care of each other," Vincenzo glances up, Federico unaware of the look he's given as he engages Tatum briefly in conversation. "You understand?"
Veleno smiles. "You've said that before every mission you've sent us on together."
"And this one is no different."
Federico suddenly pulls Carmen away from me and I can't help but try to follow their extraordinarily confusing handshake. I note to ask her how many times they practiced it before it was perfected. She wraps her arms around his waist, his around her shoulders and they pull each other close. He plants three consecutive kisses to her cheek before whispering something in her ear.
Rosalie gets her hug from Uncle Rico next. But when he doesn't plant a kiss her on cheek like he did Carmen, she points. He does as instructed. She gets four.
I don't notice it until I step outside. Until Tatum shuts and locks the front door behind us, leaving Vincenzo and Carmen, Rosalie and the soldiers that would remain in the States for their safety, behind. Vincenzo and Federico were the only two that didn't offer each other anything short of a goodbye. No interaction. Nothing.
Something about it makes me sad as Tatum offers me a hand, escorting me down the steps as the others scurry ahead. Crixus bounces forward with a laugh, Veleno chasing after him. Rico shouts out something to them all. The three assassins' burst out in another fit of laughter. Whatever Rico said hurt Crixus's feelings, at least that's how he pretends to act, his small hands resting on his hips. Rico reaches him quickly and pulls him into a dramatic hug, swaying, as an apology.
A small group of soldiers surround us, just enough to fit into two of the three Escalades that idle in the driveway. Tatum shouts something. Italian. Soldiers begin to scurry, climbing inside their designated vehicle. Federico, Crixus, and Veleno scurry towards the one reserved for us, doors open. There's a brief fight on who will sit where. Crixus ends up in between the two.
I slow to a stop, Tatum taking only a few steps ahead before looking back at me. I think that was when it all clicked. When I realized just how terrible this life could be, but just how much I was coming to love it. That there was nothing I wanted more than to make it my forever. I had often questioned my purpose. What I couldn't do in comparison to what I could. I might not be the best shot. I might never be. And maybe I hold things in too much, neglecting my health for others. It all needed to be worked on. But at least my purpose was starting to become a little clearer. To save the ones that needed saving and love the ones that needed loving. Because above all else, it is the least I can do.
And as Tatum extended a hand to me, one other thing became clear.
I think I loved the little group of powerful friends' I had made.
Tatum leads me to the vehicle, only climbing in once I've settled. I don't hear what he says into the earpiece, but as the SUV switches gears, Federico catches my eye.
In reference to Diavolo, I smile at him.
"Let's go get your boy."
In reference to Valentin, Fantasma returns it.
"And let's go kill yours."
•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••
My eyes open with a jolt when the SUV transitions from paved road to gravel.
The vehicle is silent, the only noise rising from below as the cars wheels begin to tear across the gravel, leaving a trail of dust behind it. I grab at the thigh holster strapped to my upper leg and readjust it with a simple twist. My other hand grips the high-powered weapon slung across my chest. For just a second, I appreciate the rhythmic sound of rubber spinning gravel.
It's a sound low enough, consistent enough, to urge on sleep. But I'm not crazy. None of the insanely talented individuals that I share the SUV with are sleep, even if it appears as though they are. Eyes closed. Bodies bouncing as the vehicle does.
Nobody slept on the plane. Liam, Tatum, and Giovanni spent hours dividing up the hundreds of individuals into groups, split all the way down to which house they would infiltrate, which wing they would manage. Federico spent his time hovered over an older blueprint of the Rostov estate, absentmindedly chewing a pencil between his lips, erasing and re-drawing what he could remember from his trip to make it as accurate as possible. The others attached silencers to firearms, a daunting task when you have duffel bags filled with them.
And if the time wasn't spent working, it was spent in a silence only anticipation can cause.
The divider, separating the passengers and the driver, is lowered. "ETA one minute, forty seconds."
Giovanni watches his phone, head bowed. The soft light reflects off his sharp features, his recently trimmed beard. A muscle in his jaw ticks. "First guard leaves the main house side door in one minute, thirty seconds. Second guard should approach in two minutes for their shift. Move quickly."
"Thirty seconds to breach," Liam's voice fills the vehicle. "Keep the silencers on until they pull out their assault rifles, then switch weapons. I don't want him to know we're here until he has to."
None of the SUVs stop. Not the one in front of us and not the twenty behind us. Somewhere down the gravel road the vehicles had killed their lights. They slowed enough for the soldiers inside to push open their doors, gravel still kicking up from under the vehicle. Liam jumps first, the rest of us follow.
Gravel crunches underneath my feet as each vehicle hits a sharp U-turn and drives away to a spot out of sight from the Rostov mansion, where they have been told to wait, to idle, until further instruction. The right side of Valentin's estate is less protected than the rest, a gravel road even Google Maps never picked up, leading to a side door for special deliveries. Our entry timed during the one night the soldier in charge of entry and exit couldn't make his shift. We had to thank the OA, or more specifically, Nova for that one.
Something about the organization of it all was oddly satisfying. How, despite this being the first time the female assassins' from the OA had met and worked with the Luciano soldiers, all moved in synchronized fashion like they had practiced for months. And with each group paired with their leader, we split—two groups to take each home, all instructed to move in quietly, to kill quietly, until seen.
Valentin's home is the largest on the estate, certainly the grandest in architecture and design. I might have taken more time to appreciate it if I wasn't thinking about how beautiful it would look when blown to pieces. But quickly twenty seconds turns to ten as our group reaches the side door, Tatum and Gio taking the lead. I feel a hand on my shoulder at the five second mark. Twenty Luciano soldiers surround us, forming the group assigned to the most important home of all.
Each soldier hand selected by Liam. His favorites. Some older, having experienced more than the others. Wiser, beyond the years of the soldiers they mentor. Some have always been more honest, his trust in them higher than any of the others. I don't know what made each of them special, but I think I saw a glimpse of it when I looked at them. They all smile. And the door opens.
I don't stop to question how a little mistake of mine led me here. To this moment, where I'm surrounded by arguably some of the best killers in the world and the best soldiers—their silent footsteps matching my own, the grip on their raised weapon, silencers equipped, being the same as mine. Oh, if it wasn't the best mistake I ever made in my life.
The door to the outside clicks shut behind us. Our journey down the long, dim hallway is slow, strategic. All that' missing is the flickering of the lights above. Four soldiers break left to clear the first room. Four more clear the second. Both empty. Two soldiers, Veleno and I, take the third.
This one was occupied. Two Russian soldiers sitting on the loveseat facing the wall, their backs to us. One of ours checks left while the other checks right, both signaling the room—other than the two men we were looking at—was clear. Veleno follows me, his step synchronizing with mine, as we draw closer. Both Russian's have computers sitting on their lap. One has a picture of me pulled up on their screen, and I am thoroughly disappointed.
"I'm prettier in person."
They spin around, and welcome the bullet that greets them. Two laptops crash to the ground. And they hit the coffee table with a thud, before sliding to the floor.
"You're right. That picture didn't do you justice." Veleno agrees softly, with a smile, "But just so you know, my bullet reached first."
"You're delusional, about the second thing, not the first."
We keep our laughter low as we reach the hallway, blending seamlessly with the rest of the group as they continue a silent march. I counted twenty-three muffled gunshots by the time we reached the last door of the hallway. Twenty-three dead Russians who never had the time to even flinch toward their holster, our presence a shock to all right before they died.
Federico and I take the last room, a pair of soldiers remaining at the door while the others wait. A woman spins around, her hands held high in innocence. Terror washes over her expression as her eyes dart between us two, visibly unarmed. She shouts something in Russian. Rico translates. I'm not them. I just work for them. I tell him something in English, only waiting long enough for him to translate it back to her.
My bullet rips through her chest and she drops.
Too bad.
A door inside the room, leading to either a closet or an adjacent room, flies open. A man rushes out. His clothing suggests he isn't a Russian soldier, but potentially a friend, a co-worker to the woman who lies dead on the room's floor. He rushes Rico. The assassin drops his handgun, perfects a maneuver he's attempted only a million other times. He disarms the man and yanks him back into a chokehold, his body flush with Federico's.
The man flails and screams, his panic only increasing when I kick his knife underneath the sofa and train my gun on him.
"Calm down. Calm down." Federico's voice is as soothing as it was when directed towards his sick brother. It led me to believe, even for only a second, Federico actually cares for the man whose neck he had trapped between his forearm and bicep.
"Why, why, why should I calm down?" The man tries to twist, squirm, force his way out of Federico's grasp—the veins in the assassins' arm beginning to protrude, more and more, as increased effort is needed. "Why the fuck should I calm down—"
Rico tilts his lips towards the gentleman's ear, "It's easier to sleep that way."
And I watch as the assassin drags the tip of his blade across the man's throat. It's slow, nothing short of agonizing. The cries of pain, of fear, muffled by the gloved hand pressing against his mouth. The cries stop. The blood starts, and Federico lowers the man to the ground, and lets him sleep.
"I'm going to miss you," I tell him, but he knows I'm not talking about him.
"I think I'm going to miss him, too."
The hallway ends abruptly, opening towards the back of Valentin's massive foyer. The house is dark despite the hour not being too late. I can only begin to imagine how beautiful the lights of the chandelier would shimmer if they were turned on, perched high above the open concept foyer and second floor. It isn't until we reach the marble staircase that our group begins to split. Five soldiers take the rest of the first floor, instructed to search the quiet kitchen, living room, and opposite wing. Another group instructed to clear the basement.
The communication is silent, a voice hasn't passed through our earpieces since we started. But silence, for the most part, is considered good. Nobody had been spotted. Not as of yet. And as Tatum and Giovanni, followed by Liam and the rest of us, ascend the stairwell to the second floor, we can only hope we reach Valentin Rostov before the explosion of gunfire—which all of us is certain, will soon erupt.
Federico and a group of soldiers take the wing on the right. Veleno, Crixus, and a group of their own, are instructed to take the left. It leaves Tatum and Giovanni. Liam and me. And a few other soldiers. Quietness and secrecy was instructed when initially clearing every home, but there had been no rule placed on entering Valentin Rostov's bedroom. A soldier winds back. Kicks. The door splinters open.
Giovanni, the most decorated soldier of them all, rushes in first. He keeps the high powered rifle trained on his target, eyes darting from east to west for any movement. There is none. Valentin stands with his back towards the door, towards us, a phone to his ear as he watches something from out his window.
Giovanni takes one step closer than the rest of us. "Valentin Rostov, step back slowly and put the phone down. I can assure you, your backup is busy."
Valentin considers his options carefully. It doesn't take long. He tosses his cellphone to the side. Gio and Tatum share a glance, and when the two agree, are the first to approach. Giovanni kicks the cellphone further from Valentin's side, while Tatum takes the back of Valentin's head in his palm and slams it against the wall. The next minute passes quickly, the two patting the Russian leader down before backing away, giving Liam the all clear.
It wasn't until the soldiers positioned themselves on either side of the door. It wasn't until Giovanni and Tatum took a step back, allowing for Liam to step forward, the threat—momentarily—neutralized, that we heard it. That we saw what Valentin had gotten up to look at. The homes on his estate were dark, but every so often you would see a flash of light. Hear the pop of gunfire. Then it erupted, from down the hallway, from outside. They knew we were here.
"You killed my son," Is the first thing Valentin says. I swear I imagine the tears that gloss his eyes over. Valentin takes another step, and another, drawing himself dangerously close to Liam. Someone puts the barrel of a gun at his temple, yet he still doesn't back down. "You killed my son, so I killed his."
"I didn't kill your son," Liam shoots back, refusing to back down for anything. "My sort of, kind of little sister did. Put about eight bullets in him. She's nine."
"Nine?" I can't tell if Valentin is impressed or embarrassed. "Oh, if I could get my hands on her—"
"Where is Diavolo?" My stomach begins to turn. My palms begin to sweat. I can feel heat rush from the pit of my stomach towards my head. And I lunge. One hand around Valentin's throat, and I shove him into the wall, the other drawing my gun to his temple. I don't remember much of it. "You said you killed his son, so where the fuck is he?" My nails dig into his neck, droplets of blood staining the tips of my finger. I squeeze. Valentin makes a face, something between a smile and an expression of pain. I lower my voice. At least I think it's mine. "I don't care what you think of any soldier in this room. I don't care if you have never feared Liam a day in your life. But I'm telling you, you should be afraid of me."
I can hear a chorus of my name, from one person to another. Someone grabs my shoulder. I fling them off. Someone grabs my forearm. It's gentle. Liam. He's the one who manages to pull me away. But not far. I yank my arm out of his and lunge at Valentin once more.
I jam the barrel of the gun into the wall right beside his ear. I pull the trigger.
And the one the Russians bow to, bows to me.
Valentin Rostov drops to his knees, a cry of pain dancing off his lips as he grabs at his ears—the gunshot still echoing.
A voice comes over the comms. Liam lifts a hand to the device nestled safely in his ears. "Repeat that?"
"The basement is empty," The soldier reports, "There's no one here. Just a lot of blood."
I draw the gun to Valentin's forehead. "The next one goes in your head. Where is he?"
Valentin lifts himself to one knee and looks up. "Three bullets to the chest. You won't find his body. An eye for an eye, right?"
Giovanni leads me away slowly, a gentle hand guiding me on my elbow. He whispers something in my ear. He was trying to calm me, to get me down to a level where I was reasonable. I pull my attention away from Valentin as he slowly pulls himself to a stand, engaging Liam in muffled conversation again. I pull it away just long enough to look Giovanni in the eye. Just long enough to feel Giovanni let me go, to see him take a step back, to hear him call my name. "Faith?"
She doesn't answer him.
"When will you realize I was never the enemy?" Valentin questions Liam, a knowing grin replaced with the painful wince. No doubt his ears are still ringing. "And yes, I can honestly admit that you caught me off guard. I never expected you to come, certainly not tonight."
"Not the enemy?" Liam fights a laugh, "You started this mess."
"My mistake," Valentin takes a daunting step in Liam's direction. "I was your enemy, at first. But then your poor, worthless, bitch of a mother ate a bullet and you found out it wasn't me. You found out it was Yakuza who killed her. And what did you do? I'll tell you what you did. Actually, I'll tell you what you didn't do. You didn't do what Michael would have done."
"You have no idea what he would have done."
"Michael, oh, Michael." Valentin shares a brief smile. "If your father found out an organization had gunned down his helpless wife, he would have left me alone and gone after them. But here you stand, in my bedroom, while your mother lies in the cold—"
Liam grabs Valentin's jaw, twisting his head at the most uncomfortable angle. He yanks the Russian towards him, jamming the gun against his skull once, twice, then three times. Valentin is no longer smiling, and blood is beginning to roll down his temple. "Keep both of my parents' names out of your mouth. And as for Michael? No, he would have killed you both. You don't know him. You never knew him. He let his actions speak for him, and I will you. You just jumped too far ahead of my plan."
"You're a bitch." Valentin spits out, unable to break free. "You're a bitch, but even better? You're a trapped bitch. I didn't expect you to come tonight. But they sure did."
Liam shoves Valentin toward the floor. "So, you couldn't fight me on your own, so you brought the Yakuza?" The smile that crosses Liam's face as he turns around to address us, is one of confidence. "Tell the others to fall back." He hooks a finger over his shoulder, "And bring him."
"Can we just put a bullet in his head now?" Tatum asks all the right questions.
But as always, Liam thinks of the long game. "If we plan on making it out, no."
And that's when the voice breaks over the comms. "We have a problem."
Liam is the first to exit. I follow, with Tatum and Gio who spend their time hauling Valentin back to his feet and out the room. The soldiers guarding the doors are the last to leave. We're met immediately by the group who cleared the left side of the second floor, and the one who cleared the right.
"Why is he not dead?" Rico addresses his question to Liam.
"Why does Faith look like that?" Crixus ponders out loud.
"What is this problem?" Veleno asks.
Liam's response is enough to shut them all up. "We need to go."
And we do. We quickly descend the marble staircase. We only reach halfway before the soldiers in front come to an immediate halt. The massive front doors are blasted open, and I swear the structure we stand inside shakes as they come storming in. They come from the front doors, from the sides, from all and every possible entrance the Rostov home has. I would feel trapped, utterly hopeless if not for the fact that we have hundreds of soldiers rushing the main house as we wait.
They're Yakuza. Like what I always imagined they would be. A swarm of individuals dressed in black. The pieces of leather sown into their attire shimmers dimly underneath the moonlight that seeps through the massive, overarching window seated high above the foyer. Many hold assault rifles, but almost all have katanas stored safely in the holsters across their back. Their faces hidden. They remind me of the perfect blend of Crixus and Diavolo.
When the soldiers don't press forward, Liam does. He grabs Valentin from Tatum and continues his descent. His gun, back in his hand. I press forward with him. And we finish the last five steps together.
The sea of black parts, as they allow all of us off the steps. They back away, but their eyes still trail us as we move towards the center of the foyer.
Liam stops suddenly. You could have heard a pin drop in a room full of hundreds when his voice rings out, "Where is she?" And somehow, they all know exactly who he's asking for.
The woman appears through a thin lane opened just for her. She looks just like the rest of them. A hood pulled over her head. Fabric, wrapped loosely around her mouth. She holsters her weapon. It was unnecessary when she had hundreds of others to rely on. The woman lifts a hand and pulls her hood down. The fabric around her mouth falls with it, bunching at her neck. She's pretty. Dark eyebrows with light, blonde hair. Japan native.
"Let Mr. Rostov go," She demands, her accent thick. "And we will let yours go."
Liam sits on it for a second. "And how many of mine do you have?"
"Fifteen."
"Fifteen." Something in Liam's laugh unnerves me. "Are you her?" He steps forward, the assassins behind her disapprove. There's a shift—in their stance and their energy. She stands just around five foot five, her head tilted up towards him in mock curiosity. She doesn't give a fuck. "Are you the Yakuza woman who ordered the hit on my mother?"
I turn to Liam, the grip on my gun tightening. I transitioned from the small handgun to the automatic weapon a short while ago. "Liam." He heard me. Processed what else was said with my tone. His jaw tightens as he waits for her response.
She stalls just long enough to smile. "Mr. Luciano, I am not the woman who ordered the hit on Jaiyana Zara. That was my superior." The woman steps forward, and her face darkens. I don't like how close she gets, or how she tilts her lips to his ear. There's no need for it, because everyone can hear what she adds, "But I am the one who pulled the trigger."
I watch Liam crumble. It takes all but a matter of seconds. The way his expression shifts. The way his pain rushes to his eyes. And I know he hears her voice. I know he feels her touch, the tingle of what is left, on his palm. I can't stop him. The others, a step too far away to try. He spins Valentin Rostov between him and the Yakuza woman, jams the barrel of the gun into the Russian kings mouth, and ends his reign.
What's left of Valentin Rostov dots my face.
Liam grabs the powerful Yakuza woman by the hem of her shirt. Seconds. Milliseconds, at that. He jams the barrel of the gun into her temple, and he takes her head off.
A split second of stunned silence, of stillness is shared as the woman collapses beside Valentin. Specks of blood dot Liam's face, entangles in his beard. He stands over them both, a sign always taken as disrespect. Time slows. Giovanni and Tatum run past me, the other soldiers following. They position themselves in front of him, in front of Liam. They know they're outgunned, outnumbered. But to take a bullet that was meant for him, to give him even the slightest chance of making it out of this situation alive, would mean they served their time, they served their purpose.
My eyes drift upwards, catching the beauty of the chandelier once more. It starts to sway.
It was the explosion that saves our lives.
It knocks everyone toward the ground, unable to maintain their balance. There's muffled ringing, a piercing sound that refuses to go away. There's shouting in Japanese. Shouting in English. The gunfire is bilingual. The second explosion destroys the foundation. The roof follows. The chandelier falls with it. And that's when the floor falls out from under us all.
My scream blends in with all the others as walls collapse. As concrete crushes bone. I fall. I anticipate the landing for the longest three seconds of my life, yet it still hasn't come. I hit something hard, bounce off something else, and that's when the ground rushes up and greets me. There's a sickening, deafening crack. This scream burns the back of my throat.
I know I passed out. Only a couple of minutes. The screams have faded, the sound of brick and stone crumbling have subsided. I cry trying to roll over onto my back, my side, my arm, having taken the force of the fall. My vision is blurry, and I can't focus for long, the throbbing in my head only getting worse. I can see the night sky and the hole in the floor above me. Half of Valentin's home still stands, but the foyer and most of the left wing, are gone.
I push myself to my knees and recognize that I've fallen to what remains of the basement. I grab the earpiece that fell out and scattered a couple feet away. I shove it back in my ear. Static. I rip it out. "Fuck." Dust circulates as the explosion settles. There's no way to reach the floor above and I know I'll have to travel through what's left of the basement to find the way. But none of the blueprints I studied on the Rostov home had the layout for what it would look like when it was bombed.
The silence is unnerving. I push through rubble and climb over downed concrete. I step over a soldier's leg, his head crushed by a concrete block, and I can only hope he isn't one of ours. I get dizzy suddenly, the world begins to spin, and I lower myself to the ground in hopes that it passes.
"You fucking bitch."
My vision clears faster than expected.
The soldier, Yakuza or Russian—it didn't matter to me—swings the pipe at my head. My dodge is slow, and it connects with my shoulder. He grabs me by the hem of my bulletproof vest and yanks me back, tossing me to the floor once more. I scramble for my gun. It's gone. His approach is slow, blood running down a gash in his head. I shut my eyes, count, and when I reopen, he's right where I want him to be. Standing over me.
I kick his knee in with all the energy I have left. It bends unnaturally as his scream fills the air. He drops the pipe. Falls to a knee. I scramble for it. To my feet. Then I swing.
I swing, and I swing, and I swing until his face is no longer recognizable. I swing until I know a dental examination will be the only way his body is identified. I swing until I feel a presence.
"I think he's dead."
I'm starting to recognize his voice. To see him, before he even reveals himself to the world. Swaying, gingerly, in the darkest portion of what remains of the basement. He steps forward, his boots meeting the faint light before he does. He rotates the gun in his hand, making sure the barrel faces him as he takes another step. His approach is slow, calculated. And that's when I see them. The three bullet holes to his chest. He's bleeding. He isn't wearing a vest. One went high, closer to his shoulder than his heart. Two went low.
Diavolo comes to a stop and extends the weapon to me. His question is simple. "Trade?"
"You took three bullets to the chest," I tell him, as if he didn't experience it personally. "You aren't wearing a vest. Why aren't you dead?"
The gun remains extended between us. He extends it further as another seconds passes with no response.
The pipe clatters to the floor and I reach forward, convinced he won't answer me. I wrap my left hand around the gun. Diavolo doesn't let go, forcing me to look up at him. It's only then, that he answers, "I'm hard to kill."
He releases the weapon and steps back. "What hand?" Diavolo keeps his question short and concise. The look I share with him forces him to ask again, "You're hurt. Which hand is dominant?" He motions toward the arm that I have pressed against my side, in a naturally protective position.
"Right." I breathe out. I press my right arm into my side once more, the pain sharp. "I'm right-handed."
"No you're not." I swear I can hear a smile. "You're left-handed tonight." The assassin turns and leads us deeper into the basement. The sky has disappeared, actual floor over our heads as we navigate through the complicated floor plan. All I know is that we want to head away from the left wing, our transport having dropped us on the right side. "You look pale," Diavolo finally comments.
"I'm white."
The assassin stops abruptly, and I bump into him, hard. The air rushes out of my lungs as he turns back to me. "I meant unnaturally. Are you bleeding?"
"Don't think so."
"You look like you're about to pass out."
I mutter something under my breath and continue to follow as he proceeds with finding a safe exit. Another portion of the floor above has caved in. Splintered wood, metal, and bodies disrupt our clear path. Diavolo leans over and looks back just long enough to make sure I accept the gloved hand he offers. Never in a million years would I have thought I would be here, underneath Valentin Rostov's collapsed home holding Diavolo's hand.
We squeeze through a narrow passageway, one tight enough that forces me to hold my breath. When we reach the other side, I squeeze his hand. "Are you worried that I'm going to pass out for my own well-being, or are you worried that you'll have to carry me out of here?"
A second passes before Diavolo answers. "How much do you weigh?"
"Probably in the one-thirties now."
"I could toss you across a room," He finally responds.
Our journey continues, only stopping when I stop. I let go of his hand and slump against the nearest wall. The wreckage that we walk through still makes our path feel even more narrow, leaving me much closer to the assassin than I want to be. "Can we—can we take a break? I'm getting sleepy."
"Look at me." He instructs and I try, widening my eyes to the point of being excessive. His gloved hands are cold and somewhat relieving as they cradle my head. Something registers in his eyes, and he nods. "You have a concussion." He reaches for my good hand and yanks me up, leaving me with no choice but to follow. "What does Liam weigh?"
I find the question odd at the time, but one day it would click why he asked me that. My favorite topic. We continue to push forward while I think about it. "Liam is a good weight. He's six foot one or so, but you're taller, so you might weigh more than him. Maybe, I don't know. You two are built differently. You seem leaner. He's spent some time in the gym over the summer and added a few pounds. They look good on him. He has nice arms. You know, as I'm nearing my mid-twenties, I'm starting to become more of a bicep-grabber than a hand-holder. Only the real ones know—what? Why are you looking at me like that?"
"I'm waiting for you to pass out."
He pulls me out from under the remaining rubble and for the first time in what feels like forever, we stand up straight. I stare at him. At least at what I can see. The red stains where he's been shot are distinct against the black fabric. The three trails of blood are slow to run down his outfit, but other than that, he's untouched.
I blame the concussion for my slow realization. "You blew the place up."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Yes."
"Typical man answer."
I don't grasp the damage until I ascend the basement stairwell. Everything to our right is untouched. Everything to our left is not. I feel nauseous just at the sight of it. At the thought that crosses my mind. They could be in there. They could all be in there.
"Our men could be under here." I whisper as Diavolo finishes his ascent. "Liam could be under there. Veleno, Rico, Crixus, Tatum, Gio—" I spin around and shove the assassin backwards, my anger flaring, "What the fuck is wrong with you? You could have given us some warning—"
He takes a step forward, and I immediately regret my actions. "It was a bomb," He declares lowly, "Not a public service announcement."
"Are you trying to be funny?"
"No." And somehow, I know he's telling the truth.
I let out a huff. "You're talking a lot. I think I like it when you're quiet."
"Me too."
It felt like a jab but I accept it.
Diavolo leaves me no choice, and I'm left to follow him through what's left of the home. Nothing looks the same. Nothing looks as I remember, even if it still remains as the blueprint suggested. We bypass through what's left of the kitchen, our pit stop lasting just long enough to Diavolo to pull a handgun out of a dead Yakuza's holster to keep as his own. We exit out an unfamiliar, but intact hallway. I stop him when I hear the voice.
I hear Crixus.
I rush forward, this time forcing Diavolo to follow at a light jog. I hit an intersection where two hallways meet and glance down it, a smile rushing to my face as I make out the small figure. Crixus is on his knees, the bodies of two soldiers surround him. The expression on his face is hidden, but the way his hands dance around in the dark, searching for something on the ground concerns me. "I can't find it." I hear him say to someone. "I can't find—I can't find my other katana—"
Someone stands over him, their back to us. Veleno. "Relax. You probably dropped it when the ground shook—"
"No," The rapid shaking of Crixus's head is evident, "No, no, I had it. I had it before you saved me from those people." The boy motions to the dead soldiers on the ground.
The Russian soldier who slams his body into Veleno comes out of nowhere. A running start down the hallway that conjoins with theirs being the only explanation for the force he hits our assassin with. He spits in Veleno's face. Pins Veleno against the wall.
And drives the missing katana through the assassin's chest.
I will never forget his scream. The loudest cry of pain I ever heard. The most haunting. His expression frozen. His lips parted. His cry slowly transitioning to a silent one. Blood slips past his lips. His hands shake as he reaches for the katana in his chest. Then they fall at his side, coated in his own blood. His call for Crixus comes out in a whimper.
The Russian pushes himself away, admiring his work with a sick grin. Diavolo took the shot. The Russian drops to the ground with a cry, grabbing for the bullet that tore apart his left kneecap. I'm the one who ends his life, but the way his last breath comes out as a satisfied laugh, will never leave me.
"We have to help him," Crixus races forward. His panic has yet to set in. He wraps his hands around the sword, yet still hesitates. "We have to take it out. We can't just—We have to take it out."
"Crixus." Diavolo takes a step back as Federico passes him, eyes darting between his biological brother and the one he claims he adopted. He assesses the situation quickly, you can see it. He's breathing heavily, having somehow heard the scream, maybe even seen what had happened, and raced to our sides as fast as he could. "We take it out, and he bleeds out before we can get him help."
Crixus takes a daunting step backwards, trying to understand what Rico is saying. "But if you leave it in, he's going to—" It clicks. His head shakes slowly at first, unable to process it—or refusing to. He backs himself into the wall, hand reaching for anything he can grab. What follows is not a question, but confirmation of his understanding. "He's going to die."
Federico positions himself beside Veleno, an arm leaning against the wall. "Hey, handsome."
Veleno laughs, his expression twisting in pain. Blood coats his teeth. "Rico?"
"It's me. Can you see me?"
"A little." Veleno shudders, "Rico, it hurts. It hurts—"
"I know," Federico nods in understanding. The nod is what jars his tears loose. And they fall, racing towards the edge of his jaw without disruption. "Hold my hand."
Veleno takes it.
Rico glances up, the whites of his eyes-stained red. "Crixus, come here."
"No, no—"
"Come here," His brother demands. Still, there's no panic in Federico's voice. But the urgency is there. Crixus hears it. He scrambles to his feet, but hesitates, his steps slowing as he approaches. "Talk to him." Rico instructs again.
"I don't—I don't know what to say."
I wipe at the stream of tears that roll down my face and blurt it out. "Anything. Everything. Anything you want him to know." Federico's gaze softens in a silent thank you, while Crixus stares back at me, panic-stricken.
"You're not supposed to leave me." And I have to turn away at the sound of Crixus's voice, on the verge of begging. "You're not supposed to leave me, Veggie. I just got you." The boy's tears worsen, his breathing picking up. "I was going to harass mom and dad to adopt you, even though you're super old, and make you my real brother. And you're supposed to tell me all those awesome stories, and laugh with me before we go to bed, and watch cartoons with me. You can't die. There's so many things we're supposed to do—like you said if I ever made a gymnastics team you would come watch me. So you can't—you can't die. I just got you."
Veleno coughs out a laugh. I don't know if his tears are from the pain or from Crixus. He reaches for the boy, a finger just barely reaching for his longest curl. "I love you." Crixus nods, takes Veleno's hand, and holds it.
The assassin lets out another painful cry, each one getting softer than the last. Rico squeezes his hand. Veleno turns his head as much as he can as Federico asks, "Do you remember one of the first things you said to me on our first mission?"
Veleno smiles, referencing a previous conversation of theirs. "So now your memory is good?"
"It's selective." Rico smiles through his tears. "Do you remember? I asked you if you could meet anybody in this world, dead or alive, who would it be. Do you remember what you said?"
"Mercy."
Federico nods and squeezes his hand once more. "She's coming."
Veleno looks over Crixus. He looks past Federico. His gaze leading him to something over my shoulder. You can see his pain fade. The way his shoulders suddenly relax. The last shallow breath he took in, just enough to get his last words out. "Take care of him."
Something changes in Crixus's face, his attention lifting to Veleno just long enough to call his name. "Veggie?" He gets no response. His eyes drop to the hand in his. He takes a weary step back and lets it go, watching it fall helplessly to his friend's side. He was dead, and Crixus felt him leave. The boy's shoulders fall as he makes one last plea, despite knowing he will never get an answer. "Veggie?"
Rico takes a step away, lets out a shaky breath, and wipes the tears from his face.
Crixus still waiting for an answer he will never receive.
Diavolo steps forward. "Rico." His tone is cautious yet filled with warning at the same time.
"I know." Federico nods and quickly wipes at whatever tears escaped from it. "I know. We need to go."
"We can't—no," Crixus has backed away, the stream of tears still refusing to stop. I think he's in shock. "We can't leave him."
"Crixus, look at me!" Federico takes a step towards his little brother, his eruption of anger causing me to jump. "I can't carry him." And that's when our attention drops to Federico's leg, specifically to his knee. Blood runs down the exit of multiple knife wounds, pooling in his boot. He leans more on his right leg than on his left, the pain now evident when focused on him. "I can't."
"I can." Diavolo tugs at Federico's shirt. "Help me."
I back away until I'm standing beside Crixus. I want to tell him to take a deep breath, to calm down. His breathing so rapid I'm terrified something else could be wrong. But quietly, we watch Diavolo and Federico attempt to free Veleno. Federico hesitates when he wraps his hands around Crixus's katana. Diavolo notices. No words are shared as the two swap places. Federico positioned to catch Veleno. Diavolo, to pull the weapon from out of his chest. The process is smooth despite no words being shared. They swap again, and Federico steps away as Diavolo throws the assassin's arm over his shoulder and stands.
The hallway feels as though it will never end. Like we're walking to our execution. Crixus never looks back. Federico struggles the longer we walk, his foot having once been able to lift itself, now resembling something of a light drag. Diavolo falls behind, the weight on his back is heavy, the shots he took to his chest beginning to take their toll. I'm starting to feel dizzy again, the hallway begins to spin, and I stop just long enough to close my eyes.
I wasn't prepared for what greeted us right outside the door. The hands of gloved soldiers grab at me, transporting me from one safe person to another. Their faces are blurs and their voices are loud, drowning out my own while I try to find a face I truly recognize. I look for Giovanni. I look for Tatum. But above everyone else, I look for Liam.
"Faith." I feel a pair of arms around me, guiding me away. Tatum. Blood runs down the side of his face, daring to obscure his vision. He continues to lead me through the massive group that stands outside of what's left of the Rostov home. He releases me just long enough to press a hand to his ear and report something. "Are you hurt? Your arm—"
I think I scream when he touches it. Panic starts to set in. "Where is he? Tatum, where is he?"
I'm whisked away from the Lieutenant Commander, and into the arms of someone else. My hearing is muffled, the conversation and concern that lulls around me is quiet, almost dull. I hear someone tell the person holding me that I need medical attention. They sound like Tatum. The person holding me refuses. I realize it's Giovanni. A perfectly healthy Giovanni, just with a little blood dotting his face.
He smiles down at me and offers me into the arms of the person I was searching for. Liam. He throws his arms around me and pulls me against him. Liam presses a flutter of kisses to the top of my head as he cradles me, whispering his concern as he does so. I start to cry the minute my face touches his chest. My arm flares with pain, upset at the pressure of Liam's body pressing against it. It was the best pain I ever felt.
Liam pulls away just enough to cradle my face in his hands. He couldn't have looked any better. His upper and bottom lip were both split. A cut across his eyebrow. Blood runs down his arm, originating somewhere from his shoulder. He smiles at me, "You're a hard woman to find."
"The woman of your dreams usually is."
We stop laughing long enough to kiss, but as soon as he pulls away, our smiles return. His lips brush against mine. He says it when I tilt my head upwards, wanting another one. "You are." He smiles again. The second kiss is shorter, but just as meaningful. "You are the woman of my dreams."
"Liam." Tatum rushes to his side. He shoots me an apologetic look and tilts his head towards his boss. "You need to come here."
Liam grabs my left hand, and with the other still pinned against my side, we part through the crowd. Crixus bursts through a group ahead of us, storming forward. Giovanni follows him, and shouts after the little assassin. "You need to tell us what happened." Crixus stops. "You need to tell me what happened," Gio pleads.
Crixus drags both hands down his face, doing his best to wipe away the new tears and the old. "It doesn't fucking matter! He's dead, so it doesn't fucking matter. Nothing matters."
Liam interrupts them, his question directed at Gio. "Where?"
The commander motions over his shoulder, his steps leading him backwards, watching as Crixus breaks away from him and vanishes. I can't bring myself to tell Liam, to at least assure him that Federico is okay. I know that's where his mind went, yet somehow even if I had warned him, his heart still would have broke. Because we find Federico seated on the gravel beside his friend. Veleno's hand back in his. Fresh tears rushing down his face.
Liam's order is simple. Back up. And the group that surrounds the two step away. My palm cools when Liam's hand leaves mine. I step back, watching as he steps forward, and lowers himself into a squat.
"Rico," He offers softly.
The assassin loses another tear and squeezes his friend's hand even harder.
Liam glances away for just a second, hoping the cool Russia air dries the tears that have begun to gather in his own eyes. His voice is low, keeping their conversation private enough—away from the ears of anyone else who dares to listen. Liam's attention drifts over the body, over the blood stain on the chest. He pieces a couple things together. "Do you want to talk about what happened?"
Still no words. Federico shakes his head.
"Okay," Liam shifts, angling himself partially in Federico's line of view. "Do you mind if some of my soldiers take him? He's family. He always has been. He comes back with us."
Rico barely breathes out his response. "Just give me five more minutes." You can hear his fear. The understanding dawning on him that once the Luciano soldiers carry his friend away, he won't see him again. The casket will be closed. Locked and sealed. Forever. Federico turns his head slightly, just enough to catch Liam's eye. "Five minutes."
Liam nods slowly, and confirms, "Five minutes."
We stand, but not before Federico pulls Veleno closer and sighs. It isn't until we're walking away, Liam already gathering someone else's attention, that I look back. Just long enough to catch Federico lifting his attention to the Rostov mansion. "If this had to be my last mission, my last one, I'm glad it was with you."
"You." Liam stops abruptly, his eyes catching the individual who has slowly backed away from all the groups, idling like he doesn't belong. "You blew the place up." It's more a statement thrown in Diavolo's face than a question.
The assassin steps forward. "Yes."
"Why?"
"Valentin."
Liam doesn't believe him. "Valentin was already dead and if you think I'm stupid enough to know that you didn't know it. I'm not. So I'm going to ask you again. Why?"
"To save your life."
Liam's silence suggests his belief. He takes a step back. "You have any more explosives just lying around?"
Diavolo manipulates his arm, shaking it just enough for a small detonator to slide down his shirt and into his palm. "Yes."
We join Diavolo at his side, turning around to face what's left of the main home. Liam presses a finger to his ear, asks a question, and waits for the response. It comes a moment later. Everyone that we were aware of was accounted for. What happened to the Russian soldiers, to the Yakuza, still trapped, didn't matter. Liam was given the all clear. "Blow the place up."
Diavolo does. The ground shakes. The noise is almost impossible to stand. The foundation of what is left crumbles. Rock, granite, and everything else that makes up the exterior of the home falls first. The fire is explosive, arguably the loudest part of it all, as windows shatter outwards. It races toward the cold air and grows in fury when the two meet.
Everyone turns to watch. To see as everything we aspired to do by coming here, is finished. The soldiers watch as every other house on the Rostov estate goes up in flames. The foundation cracks, and what's left of each home, crumbles to the ground. They watch it like a family would watch a firework show on the beach, in excitement and anticipation of just how beautiful it will be.
Gabriel pulled the hood away from his face, unwrapped the thin material that covered his mouth. They gather loosely around his neck. But his eyes are glued to his prison. The reflection of the fire is caught in his eyes. It would be the most light I had ever seen in them. He blinks. And when his eyes open again, a lone tear falls. A single tear. And that was all the confirmation I needed to know that my choice had been the right one. That there was still someone in there left to save.
"Gabriel," He turns to me at the sound of his name. "Come here." He doesn't wipe the tear away when he hugs me. I can only wrap one arm around him, but I'm so thankful I can at least give him that. I can at least give the little boy whose cries nobody ever heard, that.
I let him go. He watches the building for a second longer. And he walks away.
He leaves me there, just long enough to watch as the fire and destruction becomes nothing but a background piece to the silhouettes of a group of soldiers as they reach Federico's side. Too far away to hear details, to see expressions. Federico lets Veleno go. And watches as soldiers carry his friend away. His shoulders begin to shake.
There's something joyous about the atmosphere as murmured conversation vibrates just below the sound of foundations rumbling. It was a win. It was supposed to be a win. You could feel others excitement, as the number goes around of how many soldiers, how many OA assassins, were lost. You could count each number on one hand. A small number in comparison to what the others lost. Valentin Rostov was dead. His heir, gone. His empire, his estate, and everything he ever built crumbling at the Luciano feet.
But I couldn't smile.
Because what Liam said, certainly a lesson he learned from his late father, would forever hold true.
There will always be a sacrifice.
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a/n: trust the process.
2 chapters remain.