Page 165 of The Lazarov Bratva

“Your father… Aleksander, he was backed into a corner. Although now I know about Alyona, I suppose he was maybe just buying some time, keeping me distracted with talking for as long as he could until I pushed the wrong button, and he just…”

He falls silent, and a terrible truth starts to form in my mind.

“He shot Ivan. He just shot him right in the head, and he fell.” Kristof’s voice cracks painfully. “Right in front of me, he just crumpled, and I could do nothing. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t save him. He died right in front of me, and I was just there to watch. And then all hell broke loose.”

My heart begins to pound. Deep, painful thumps rattle my entire skeleton.

“Nastja and I, we, uh… we have someone on the inside who was trying to help us, but we were outnumbered, outgunned. My own fault. I thought we had the upper hand, but it’s clear now that he was just buying time. He fired and everyone else followed suit. Nastja and I, we hid, and our mole gave us a window to escape, so we took it. Wanted to get out of there and regroup, but when we…”

He pauses to take another deep breath that he holds in his chest, his eyes locked outside at the looming shadow of the mountain.

My father killed Ivan?

I hadn’t considered that. Somehow, it didn’t even cross my mind. All I saw was the dead doctor. With Andrev telling me that Ivan and Nastja were dead too, everything merged with the house attack in my head. Kristof became the one and only culprit in my mind.

And I was wrong. I was so wrong.

“Kristof—”

He shakes his head immediately, a sharp jerk, and he finally lets out the breath.

“Who is the mole?” It’s a weak question, but the only thing I can think of to show him I’m listening.

“Alexei Dmitrov. He’s been so eager to please. Good kid.”

Alexei… Katja’s brother? Questions surge, but they don’t come. They can’t because Kristof wheezes suddenly like something’s fallen loose in his chest.

“Nastja and I ran, dove out the window, and we were going to make it. We were going to be okay, but Aleksander, he… he fired, and Nastja shoved me, and the next thing I knew, we were on the fire escape a few floors down. I couldn’t breathe, could barely think, and the only thing that stuck out to me was Ivan. I grabbed Nastja to run, but she…”

Kristof starts to shake. It’s subtle at first, but as he talks, the shaking increases until it’s undeniable.

“He shot her in the throat. She was just lying there, blood pouring from her neck, and I couldn’t stop it. She was begging me, drowning and begging me to help her, and there was nothing I could do. I just had to watch as she… she fought so hard, but she couldn’t—I couldn’t… there was nothing I could do. She kept begging, so I took my knife and I–I stabbed her in the chest to end it quickly.”

The words pour like an overflowing dam.

“She died in my arms, and I can still feel her. The weight of her body, the stickiness of her blood on my hands, and it won’t ever come off, no matter how much I wash them. It’s always there. I didn’t kill them. Your father did. And yet… maybe I did kill them because if I hadn’t taken them with me, if I hadn’t been so cocky and blinded by anger, then maybe they would still be here. With… with me.”

My heart breaks as his voice reduces his words to a paper-thin whisper. There’s a lot to process, almost too much, but what sticks out the most is that he stands there, pouring his heart out after I accused him of killing his brother and sister.

He’s not angry. He’s not hateful. He’s just honest.

“I couldn’t tell you because then, it would be so real, and I was scared it would be real. Coming back to this house with their blood on my hands and you gone, I thought I had lost everything, and I couldn’t breathe. I can’t lose you, Alena. Not you. Not ever. So if I have to kill the doctor and whoever else poses even the slightest threat to you or me, then I will do it because I can’t lose you. I lost them because of Alyona, because Aleksander knew we were coming, and that kind of betrayal, it can’t happen again. I can’t lose you too. I lost them and I can’t… I can’t do it.”

It’s only then that I realize the reason for Kristof’s shaking and his wafer-thin, strained voice.

He’s crying.

Never in my life have I seen him cry. The cup slips from his fingers, so I dart forward from the bed, catching it just before it hits the floor. Setting it aside, I slowly take his hand and encourage Kristof to face me as guilt swells deep in my gut.

He carried all of this pain, and here I was being an ungrateful, unassuming partner. I saw what I wanted to see and completely missed how broken Kristof is. The strong, defiant, nothing can hurt me man I fell in love with has lost everyone and everything he ever held dear.

How could I accuse him like that?

“Kristof.” I whisper his name and cup his cheek.

His beautiful eyes shine at me, and his lips press into a thin line as if trying to control the trembling.

“You won’t lose me,” I whisper, taking his other hand. “I swear it right here, right now. You’re not going to lose me. Not ever.”

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