Page 39 of Inked Athena

Now, I’m ice.

“Your brothers,” Myles picks up. “They were killed on the scene.”

I try to picture Tommy and Mike’s faces, but they’re blurred around the edges, like old photographs left too long in the sun. When was the last time I even spoke to them? Called them? The silence stretches back years.

My throat closes up. “My father...?”

Sam finally reaches for my hand, and I let him. “He didn’t make it.”

“But… how?”

It’s not possible. My father was always the one wielding the gun. He can’t have been taken out like this.

“They’re reporting he was shot in the line of duty, but it’s a cover-up,” Sam grits out. “The Chicago PD doesn’t want to reveal how many of their officers were on the take from the Andropovs.”

“So, they were… executed?” A tear slips down my cheek, and Sam presses a strong hand to my back, holding me up.

“As far as we can tell, yes.”

I shake my head, tears blurring my vision.Why in the hell am I crying for them?“But they were working for the Andropovs? Why would they?—”

The reality slams into me and Sam’s hand on my lower back is the only thing that keeps me from toppling over.

“Me,” I whisper. “It was my fault.”

The server I delivered was a dud. My father took the Andropovs’ lone shot to get inside Samuil’s penthouse, and he wasted it on a useless server and a mole who skipped town immediately afterward.

He pinned all his hope on me.

And they killed him for it.

Sam is already pulling me back into his chest, his strong arms squeezing me tight. He smells like oak and frost, and I breathe him in deeply to keep my lungs from clenching tight.

“This isn’t your fault, Nova. Your father and brothers knew the kind of people they were getting involved with.”

People like the Andropovs and Ilya… and Samuil.

I squeeze my eyes closed.

No, Samuil isn’t like them. But maybe my father and brothers would be alive if I wasn’t with Samuil. If I’d kept my head down and continued walking dogs, maybe none of this never would’ve happened.

What makes me feel even worse is that I wouldn’t change a thing. I should be devastated. I should be screaming, raging, drowning in grief for my family. Instead, all I feel is sick relief washing through me. They can’t hurt me anymore. They can’tthreaten Grams or try to control my life or drag me back into their web of corruption.

They’re gone, and I’m free.

Maybe I’m as much of a monster as they were.

“I need some air,” I croak, pushing away from Sam.

“Nova—”

“A minute,” I beg, turning for the door, hoping he can’t see the awful person I am all over my face. “I just need a minute.”

I make it as far as the front lawn before my legs give out. The grass is damp with evening dew as I sink to my knees, running my trembling fingers through the thick green blades.

My father is dead.

My brothers are dead.

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