Page 62 of Possession

I stalk forward. One man stands in my path. My hands are fisted. My lip is curling back as I growl.

“Roman.”

I hear my name, spoken in a familiar voice. I see the face, one from the past.

It makes no sense.

“Roman.”

I grab my brother—my brother?—by the edges of his waistcoat. His eyes flash with violence. He doesn’t like being grabbed. He wants to fight me.

But he doesn’t. He says my name again. He waves back the men who creep near.

I let him go.

He tugs his waistcoat straight. He says, “Come on,” and we walk out like nothing happened.

Our uncle Anton joins us in the main part of the gym. Vitali is leaning against the edge of the elevated boxing ring. I’m pacing again.

I feel both of them watching me.

“It’s a fucking miracle he’s still alive,” Anton mutters. He means me, I guess, because Liam Crowley is definitely dead.

“No kidding,” Vitali agrees.

“Didn’t seem like you got much information from Crowley.”

“A better picture,” Vitali says. “No actionable information.”

“It hardly matters. We know it was the DiMaggios.”

Vitali hums in something like confirmation.

“Has he been like this the whole time?” Anton asks.

“He’s fine.”

“He doesn’t look fine. Maybe you need a hand with him.”

“I’ve got it.”

“He could be dangerous.”

“I fucking said I’ve got it. You’ve got no business—”

“Watch your mouth, Vitali. Don’t forget who runs this family.”

That has me stalking back to them. My uncle’s eyes widen. My memory of him must have locked when I was a kid because he looks old to me, older than four years could account for. His hair is mostly gray. His face, though still ruggedly handsome in that very Greek way, is weathered. He’s shorter than I remember.

I still hate him. That, I never deleted from my mind, even if I haven’t thought about him in years. The hatred is still there like something I’ve simply set down and am now picking back up. It burns like it always has.

Anton doesn’t step back, but he does lean away from me. It’s Vitali who steps between us, Vitali who cocks his head toward the door. It’s Vitali that I follow, like I always used to, like some muscle memory kicking in.

We exit the gym and walk through the chilly damp of an April night to the car. Vitali gets in the driver’s seat. Sasha drove us here, but she’ll be busy with disposal for a while.

Or maybe, I realize as Vitali starts the car and looks at me from the corner of his eye, he wants to keep me away from other people.

“What do you need?” he asks me as he pulls onto the road.

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