Page 51

“You’re not sleeping ?” Elif’s soft voice comes through the line—well, soft when she’s not yelling at her sons or at us.

“And you ? Has the jet lag not knocked you out?” I counter, smiling when she laughs.

“Niko, I’ve survived sleepless nights handling Roman’s meltdowns over losing his dinosaur toys. A little jet lag isn’t going to take me down,aptal, (idiot)” she teases.

I grimace at the memory. Roman and his tantrums as a kid had been absolute nightmares to deal with.

“Does Grigori still want to slit my throat ?” I ask with a sigh, rubbing my forehead as a headache starts creeping in.

“Oh, come on, Niko, you know he was never really mad at you. He’s just worried, like we all are. It’s just that his way of dealing with it is a little more…”

“Bloody ? Violent ? Murderous ?”

“Excessive,” she corrects with a groan.

I chuckle. “Very excessive.”

“Now, tell me what’s really on your mind,” she says, and I hear the sound of her opening the glass doors to the terrace, the distant crashing of waves making something ache inside me. It reminds me of how much I miss that house. It’s been over three months since we’ve been back, spending most of our time here or traveling to distract my sons.

“It’s nothing you need to worry about. I have the situation under control—”

“Tu, tu, tu, don’t pull that with me, little Niko. Don’t make me get on a plane and come back.”

“Do I need to remind you that we’re only four years apart ?” I grumble at the nickname.

She sniffs dismissively. “I’m waiting, Niko.”

I sigh. “I don’t know, Elif. I… I’m afraid of making a mistake,” I admit, frustration lacing my voice.

Me, admitting I’m afraid ? Afraid of making a mistake ?

I would never say that to anyone.

But this is Elif—the one who’s seen me at my worst, the one I’ve broken down in front of.

“Oh, Niko,” she murmurs. “I still remember the first time you opened up to me, a few weeks after I arrived.”

Yeah, I remember that night, too—the night our bond truly formed.

Nikolaï, sixteen years old

Grigori had gone out after getting a call from the guys at the Nevada border about a problem with the Italians. Those bastards had been acting like they owned the place ever since our father was…

I clenched my fists, ready to head to the basement gym and blow off some steam after arguing with my brother. Before our father died, I had been part of the trades and sometimes even the meetings, but now, Grigori kept me out of the business.

I was sixteen, for fuck’s sake.

The dim light coming from the living room caught my attention, and as I got closer, I saw a lone figure standing on the terrace.

Elif Ozdemir. My brother’s new wife.

I wasn’t sure what to think of her at first. I had assumed she was weak, unfit to take on the role left behind by our mother. But that perception shattered when she shot Uncle Anton during dinner last weekend.

My gaze flickered to the plaid blanket draped over the armrest—the same one that had belonged to my mother.

I glanced back at the woman standing outside, the wind playing with her long hair.

I groaned and grabbed the blanket, walking onto the terrace.