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Then he pulls my hand close. Kisses my fingers.

And he is gone.

13

CIRO

The drive out of town is quiet.

Vanya stares out the window for most of the ride, dozing fitfully the rest. There is nothing I can do to comfort her.

Her brother is dead.

My best friend is dead.

I carried him to the garage where we loaded up a van and we left the compound behind. With Mocro forces still roaming St. Petersburg, I pushed her to make the call.

Even though we both wanted to look for him, the man who did it. The symbol that Matvey drew in his blood…

It was the same as the mark on the masked villain’s black visage. But we had no way to track him. We needed time to figure out what to do. Sleep. Food.

Vanya needs time to mourn.

Checking the map again, I rub my eyes, yawning as the sun just peaks over the horizon. My body is sore, bruised.

But what really aches is the hole in my chest.

She’s sitting right there. Might as well be across a chasm. Not that I blame her. I know how it feels to lose a brother. Even if I am having a hard time believing my twin is dead.

So I really have nothing to offer her. No experience. And I am the farthest from being the go-to guy for emotional maturity.

But apparently, I have enough self-awareness to have those thoughts these days. Alessandro would be stunned.

We’re cruising through the countryside, my mind drifting, when Vanya’s voice startles me.

“Ciro.”

Shaking myself, I glance at her. Her eyes are distant. Her face calm.

Taking a chance, I reach out, resting my hand on her thigh. Her fingers lace through mine. Well, that’s something.

Then I wait for her to continue, keeping my mouth shut for the first time in my life.

“Tell me something. A story. About your brothers.”

“Um, yeah. Sure. Anything in particular?”

“No. You never speak of them.” She shrugs.

Frowning, I nod, realizing she’s right. “I guess it’s easier not to think about it, but I miss the hell out of them.”

Reaching down, I change the station on the radio, searching until I find some old folk station. Perfect. Gotta set the mood.

“Forty-odd years ago, Alessandro Diamante was born. This was before he became the mysterious legend you and the rest of the world know of.”

The faintest hint of a smile plays on Vanya’s lips as she gazes out the window.

“He was a gangly, blond kid with a knack for any sport you can think of. At least those are the stories I heard growing up from Aunt Eva and Uncle Giancarlo. When I remember him, he was almost an adult. Already weighed down by the responsibility of raising three little brothers. Stern. Stoic. Always looking off into sunsets with a cigarette in his mouth. Regular Marlboro Man bullshit.”