Page 26 of Vitaly

It isn’t about me. It’s about Vlad Petrov. He’s trying to use me to make amends with the father he got killed.

He’s pathetic.

I open my mouth, the words perched on my tongue, but Nikita’s phone ringing cuts off my thoughts. He pulls it from his pocket and glares at the caller ID before answering.

“What?”

His eyes expand as the person on the other end talks, and without saying another word, he hangs up, his teeth baring with rage.

“We have to go,” he grinds at Alik. “Kill the bitch, then meet me at the car.” He steps toward the door, but Alik stops him.

“I think we should keep her alive.”

Nikita turns and gives Alik a murderous stare.

The knife leaves my throat as Alik stands. “Vitaly took Mila for a reason. We don’t know how useful to us she is until we know what that reason is. He could come back for her…”

“No.” Nikita slowly shakes his head. “He isn’t back for her… He’s at myhouse.”

Alik blinks in surprise. “He’s that stupid?”

Nikita nods then gestures to me. “Kill the bitch. Now.”

“Sir.” Alik cups his hands in front of him. “I will do this if you want, but I’m asking you, please reconsider.Trust me.Something feels off. I’m afraid we’re going to kill our enemy’s weak spot.”

Nikita considers Alik’s words for just a moment before grunting and waving a hand. “We don’t have time for this. Put her in the car if you think we need her.”

When Nikita leaves, I raise onto my feet, ignoring Alik’s offer of his hand. He may have saved my life, but he isn’t a friend.

I’m not sure anyone in this world is.

Vitaly

Nikita has changed so much.

My eyes run over my father’s old office, nowNikita’s, while listening to the girl’s voice trembling against the phone she presses to her ear.

The walls of the office used to be a dark red, the desk a mahogany that boasted classic tradition. My father had respect for a time before his, and his taste displayed that. He liked things with history, everything antique.

Nikita’s tastes are different.

I run my finger over the crease between the gray wall and a modern, black and white painting that matches the vibe of this room. My father’s antique chairs are gone, and in their places are purple, velvet monstrosities sitting atop an impractical, white rug.

What I’ve seen of the rest of the house is the same. Modern and sleek without a breath of my father left.

“S-sir,” the girl says from the entryway. When I turn my head to her, her shoulders slump.

Nibbling on the inside of her cheek, she walks the phone to me and holds it out. I spare it a brief glance before turning back to the painting.

“Do you like this?” I nod toward the black and white smudges of paint. I don’t know what it’s supposed to be or what it means. Or what it’s supposed to make me feel. Maybe I’m dead inside.

“Um…” She takes her time answering, the phone slowly lowering to her side. “I-I’m not sure, sir. Do you like it?”

Do I like it?

Do I likeanyof this?

My lips dip into a frown. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I suppose it was unrealistic to have expected nothing to have changed. Or foranythingto have stayed the same.

---