“Hey.”
He’s looking at me in that pure Gabriel way—assessing, cataloguing, checking—a look that I love and hate at the same time. It’s like he can see right through me. It used to unnerve me, but now it makes my chest ache with emotion. He’s confirming I’m here, that I’m safe, that whatever’s out there hasn’t reached me yet.
Then I see his arms.
His sleeves are pushed up, abrasions along his left forearm. On his right hand, across the knuckles, are dark scrapes. And on his shirt…
“Oh my God, is that blood?”
“It’s nothing.”
I close the distance between us and take his hand into mine, turning it over. It’s dried blood alright—brownish red in color, cracking along the creases of his fingers. Some of it even flakes off at my touch.
“What the hell happened?”
“We should talk.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“Not all of it is mine.”
My stomach sinks. I look into his eyes and see a kind of exhaustion that I’ve never seen before.
“Come with me,” I tell him.
I take his hand and lead him through the house to the master bathroom. He lets me, without saying a word. That alone tells me how bad it is, because Gabriel Moretti doesn’t get led anywhere by anyone.
I guide him to the bathtub, where he sits on the edge, then watches me without speaking as I run warm water over a cloth, wring it out, and kneel in front of him. I take his right hand first, cleaning the blood from his knuckles and working gently over the abrasions. The water turns a faint pink in the white basin of the tub.
“Max Fedorov is dead.”
I stop.
“We met today in Midtown for lunch.” His voice is flat and controlled. “He is—was—Bratva old guard. He was your father’s closest ally, as well as his godfather. He flew in from Moscow to verify your identity. Once he was satisfied that you are indeed Teodora Fetisova, he planned to bring an entire network of Fetisov loyalists into the fight against Kolya.”
I start cleaning again, gently, letting him talk. My stomach is in knots.
“We had a good meeting. He agreed to come here later tonight to reunite with you.” A pause. “He’s known you for many years. Said that when you were small, you’d sit on his lap and play with his tie.”
My throat tightens, but I stay silent.
“When we walked out of the restaurant, there was a drive-by. Two shooters. They aimed for Max first, then me. I returned fire, killing both of them.”
I lift the cloth to his forearm. The abrasions are shallow but angry—the exact sort of injury you’d expect from diving onto the pavement to avoid gunfire.
That’s his life, which is nowmylife. I clean the scrapes with careful strokes, feeling the tension in his muscles.
“Max died on the sidewalk,” he says quietly. “His last words were to you. He wanted me to tell you that your father was the best man he ever knew.”
I stop again. The cloth is still warm in my hands. Water drips into the tub. Somewhere in the house, a grandfather clock chimes.
Max Fedorov. I don’t remember him, but I wish I did. How many other people are still living who remember me as a happy child? Who knew my mom and dad? Max crossed an ocean to find me, and now he’s gone.
I lean forward and press my forehead against Gabriel’s shoulder, letting out a long, slow breath.
His hand moves to my hair, his fingers threading through the strands before cupping the back of my head. We stay like that for a moment. Not speaking, not moving. Just being present.
“Kolya did this,” I state. It’s not a question.