Page 121 of Inked Athena

Myles follows my eyes, sees what I see, and blanches pale white. “Don’t answer.” He takes a step forward. “Let me trace?—”

I hit accept and put it on speaker. “Calling to surrender, brother?”

I expect laughter. I expect taunting.

All I hear is an animalistic sob.

The sound coming through my phone’s speaker isn’t human. It’s the wail of a wounded beast, and even out here in the wilds of Scotland, as violent and untamed a place as exists, it sounds like something that doesn’t belong on this earth.

“Father—” Ilya chokes. “Otets, he’s—” More Russian expletives follow, each more broken than the last.

I grip the edge of my desk, knuckles white. Waiting. Is he actually saying that Leonid is?—

“Dead.” The word explodes from him in another wail. “You killed him. You and your fucking stubbornness killed him.”

“What happened?” I grit out.

“His heart. Fucking blew up on him.” Ilya’s voice cracks. “Right the fuck in front of me. One minute, we were talking about—about you—and the next…” A harsh, grating laugh. “The great Leonid Litvinov, taken down by his own fucking body.”

My legs won’t hold me. I sink into my chair, phone clutched to my ear.

“The doctors say it was quick.” Ilya’s tone shifts from grief to venom. “But you weren’t here. You weren’t here to hold his hand or call for help or?—”

“Shut up.” The words come out barely above a whisper.

“You were too busy playing house with your whore and your bastard to?—”

I end the call.

The silence that follows is an anvil on my chest.

Myles hasn’t moved. His face is a mask of shock and sympathy I can’t bear to look at.

“Get the helicopter.” My voice sounds distant, foreign. “And tell Nova…”

What? That the man who terrorized my childhood is dead? That we’re free of him?

“Tell her I need her.”

Myles runs off.

I slump back in my seat.

Dead.

The word sears through my skull like a bullet searching for an exit. It’s suddenly burning hot in here, but when I wrench open the closest window, bitter cold comes pouring in. My breath is a plume in the frigid room.

Dead.

Dead men can’t make amends. Dead men can’t earn forgiveness. Dead men can’t suffer for their sins or beg for mercy as you choke the life from them.

The burn behind my eyes intensifies. I squeeze them shut, willing away memories of hockey games and vodka shots and bruising backslaps that felt like approval until I learned better.

When I open them again, Nova’s reflection appears in the glass beside mine. My chest constricts at the sight of her—belly swollen with our child, face drawn with worry. She’s wearing one of my sweaters, the sleeves rolled up four times to free her hands.

I brace for her lecture about the FBI’s offer. About how we could be free of all this, if I’d just take their deal.

But she doesn’t speak. Instead, her small hand slides into mine, fingers threading through my own. Her other palm presses against my back, right between my shoulder blades, and starts moving in slow circles.

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