Page 80 of Possession

“Roman,” Vitali calls again.

I haul Lucas close to tell him that I love him because I have no more words. He grabs on, holds tight, tries to stop me, but I have to go. This is the way I know to solve these problems. It’s like more of that long-dormant muscle memory, like when my hand curled so familiarly around that whiskey glass.

I pull away and go with Vitali. I don’t look at Lucas again as we leave. I don’t look at my uncle either, but I do hear his voice as he says, “Blood and honor.”

I’ve heard it a hundred times, spoken by him or my father or Vitali, but something about it echoes strangely as I walk out into the sights and sounds of the nightclub, triggering another wave of déjà vu.

I fight it with everything I’ve got. I cannot afford to be distracted right now. I have no time for my own shit.

I manage to keep the sensation at the edge of my awareness, but I can’t banish it completely. As we descend the steps from the mezzanine into the belly of the club, the slashing lights and thumping beat and writhing crowd feel doubled. I look out across the chaos, dizzied by it, seeing it both now and in the past.

A hand claps on my shoulder because I’ve stopped. I look up, suddenly nauseated.

For a second I see my uncle as I hear, “Let’s get outside.”

But it’s not my uncle. It’s Vitali.

I swallow my nausea and follow him along the edge of the crowd to the door. As we step out into the night air, I suck in a deep breath.

I try to rid myself of the nagging sense of déjà vu, but it only intensifies as a black van pulls up and the back doors open. Vitali says my name. He’s staring at me. He knows something is wrong, but he doesn’t know what it is.

Neither do I.

So I push it away.

I get in the van and sit on one of the benches lining the side, crowding in with our men. Vitali gets in as well. The doors close, rendering the interior dark. The van starts to roll.

The sense of déjà vu won’t go away, and now that I have silence again, with nothing to decide or do, I realize that all those alarms are still ringing inside me for some reason.

I’m missing something. Something important. I close my eyes as we pick up speed.

Pieces of memories float up. The chaos of the nightclub. A glass of whiskey. Dizziness. Nausea.

Let’s get outside.

Staggering through the club and out into the night like I’m drunk. Falling.

Seeing pant legs and shoes as someone stands over me. But who?

Fuck—who?

The van rolls onward, just like another van did that night when I was lying semi-conscious on the floor of it with my wrists and ankles bound.

I force my mind back to the parking lot, to the shoes. The man crouches.

Blood and honor—what a fucking joke.

My eyes pop open. “Stop the van!”

TWENTY-EIGHT

Lucas

Something about Roman’s uncle is bothering me. I can’t pinpoint it. It’s the way he talks. His body language. Something in his vibe.

I’ve always been intuitive to a certain degree, but my time with Roman has definitely heightened it. I’ve spent months attuning myself to subtle, nonverbal cues.

I caught some hints of wrongness even before Roman, Vitali, and Sasha left, but that feeling has only intensified since. So when Anton Constantine and his bodyguard leave the room, I get up from the couch.

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