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Anissa stares at me but doesn’t say a word.

I turn to my parents. “I still don’t know why you’re here.”

“We can’t just come see our son?” my mom asks, voice sticky sweet.

“You could.” I shrug. “You don’t.”

My mother shakes her head and lifts her chin high, but something like sadness flickers across her face. “It would’ve been your brother’s birthday today. Did you forget so soon?”

A stab of pain hits my chest. I don’t want to look at Anissa right now. The memory of Gleb leaves me vulnerable, splits me bare, and I don’t want her to know. My voice is husky, affected, when I shake my head. “No. I didn’t forget.”

Unlike her, I don’t celebrate any of those dates.

I turn my back to all of them, suddenly gripped with the desire to be alone. Alone, just like I’ve been since the day I buried my brother’s mutilated, traitorous body.

It’s safer being alone.

Instead, I pour myself another drink. I jerk my head toward Anissa. “Drink?”

Wordlessly, she nods. The room is silent as I pour her a shot of vodka and hand it to her. The face she makes when she sips it is adorable, like a little kitten who’s drunk soured milk.

I sip mine slower, leaning against the wall. The drink makes the dull aching in my chest bearable.

For now.

“You came here because it was his birthday?” I don’t want to speak his name.

Did they expect me to fucking celebrate?

My mother sniffs, but she can’t hide the tremor in her voice. “We’re feeling nostalgic. Sad. Thought we’d see our other son. Maybe that was a mistake.”

She gets to her feet, heads to the kitchen, and starts rifling through my cabinets like she owns the place.

“How do you even stay alive?” my mother mutters, shaking her head. “There’s no food in here.”

I clench my molars. “I just got back from Paris.”

She mutters something under her breath before turning to my dad. “Honey,” she says to him, “let’s get food. I’m starving.” She looks at Anissa. “And I don’t want to be here any longer.”

“Oh,” Anissa says in a fake-ass voice, “please. Don’t go. I was just starting to get to know you.”

She holds up her empty glass to me, her eyes on my mother. I refill it.

Jesus Christ.

“Nice, you got yourself a cute little bitch, didn’t you?” my mother says, cold as ice. If she were a fucking man?—

“That woman,” I begin in a low voice, fury pounding through my veins as I clench my drink. My father knows better. He’s already moving to stand between us like he could stop me if he had to. “Is mine,” I finish, my voice lethal. “Rafail gave her to me. That woman’s going to be the mother of your grandchildren. Is that clear?”

My mother’s face turns beet red—but not from embarrassment. Not her. She’s pissed.

“I get it. You’ve had to let a lot of shit go, haven’t you?” she spits. “A lot of expectations. Hopes. Dreams. We’ve let you get away with plenty, and the only reason Rafail still lets you hang around is because you have some respect left for the rest of us.”

I lean in, voice pure fucking ice. “I might not be so nice.”

“Be careful,” my father growls. “You’re loyal to a fault.”

I turn to him, eyes narrowing. “I don’t have a brand seared into my back withyourname on it, do I?”