Page 41 of 10 Days to Surrender

After Jasmine leaves, I’m left staring at the plate of peach slices like it holds all the answers. It doesn’t, of course. It’s just fruit. But that doesn’t stop me from looking for meaning anywhere I can find it.

The peach bleeds juice across the chipped plate. I watch it pool in the crevices of old ceramic, sticky-sweet and cloying. My reflection warps in the syrup—a gaunt ghost with too-sharp cheekbones and eyes like bullet holes.

The knife trembles in my grip. I set it down before I can slip again, though the small nick on my hand has already stopped bleeding.

But I snatch it right back up when I hear footsteps stomping through the gravel outside. I’m turning toward the door when it bursts inward?—

And Kosti barges in, whistling something peppy.

“Blyat’,you old idiot, I almost stuck this in your throat.”

Kosti turns to look at me, with one thick eyebrow raised like a caterpillar crawling toward his hairline. “Testy this morning, are we?”

Dust clings to his boots. The sharp tang of gun oil cuts through the kitchen’s garlic-and-wine haze.

“Smells like my grandmother’s house in here,” he remarks, shrugging off his coat. “If my grandmother was a chain-smoking war criminal.”

“Knowing you, she might’ve been.” I lean against the counter, careful to keep my weight off my screaming left side. “Where were you?”

“Tending the goats.”

“We don’t have goats.”

He grins, all yellowed teeth and secrets. “Exactly.” He nods at the stove. “That supposed to be edible?”

“It’s risotto, so yes.”

“Looks like wet cement.”

“Then don’t eat it. See if I give a damn.” I reach for the parmesan from the cabinet overhead. But as I do, the movement tugs at the knot of still-healing scar tissue beneath my ribs. Fire licks up my flank and my hand spasms. The block of cheese slips, cracks against the counter.

Kosti’s gaze sharpens. “How’s the gut?”

“Fine.” I straighten my spine, refusing to let him see how the simple act of standing upright makes my shoulder ache.

“Bullshit.” He crowds into my space and pokes two fingers below my sternum. I jerk back with a hiss and he nods knowingly. “Ah-ha. I thought you were fine?”

I bat his hand away. “It’s nothing.”

“Well, ‘nothing’ has you sweating like a whore in church.” He squints at me. “When are you planning to go back?”

The question catches me off-guard. “What?”

“To New York. To whatever revenge fantasy you’ve been cooking up between your perimeter checks.” His voice hardens. “Don’t play dumb with me, boy. I know that look in your eyes. You can’t wait to go martyr yourself.”

“The sooner, the better.” The paring knife winks at me from the cutting board. I press my thumb to the blade until the bite of steel grounds me. “The longer we wait?—”

“The longer your bullet wound has to heal?” He barks a laugh. “Yeah, I can see how well that’s going. You can barely lift a fucking pan without wincing.”

“I’ve fought through worse.”

“And that’s worked out nicely for you so far?” He gestures at my bandaged torso. “Tell me, what’s your brilliant plan? Hobble into battle and hope Dragan doesn’t notice you’re moving like an arthriticbabushka?”

Anger flares hot in my gut. “You don’t understand?—”

“No,youdon’t understand.” He closes the distance between us, jabbing a finger into my chest again. Right over the wound. I grit my teeth against the spike of pain. “If you go back now, you’redead. Simple as that. And then what happens to her? To those babies?”

“I can protect them?—”

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