Page 37 of Unspoken

My jaw clenches at the poorly concealed sarcasm in Curtis’s voice. I know it was my choice to do what I did—to cover for him. I could have said no, but I said yes. Being angry at the man whose family I saved seems counterproductive. Still, I am angry. I feel like a failure because of my choice. And Curtis Sala’s proximity only makes everything worse.

"News travels fast," I say, schooling my features into neutrality, but inside, my mind is a maelstrom. How the fuck does he know? "Keeping tabs on me, Curtis?"

"Wouldn't dream of it," he replies, with nonchalance that doesn't fool either of us. "You’re not the one we’re after. It's Solovey that's got our attention. Your name simply came up in the process."

"Interesting." The ice in my drink clinks like a warning bell as I take a slow sip, buying time, trying to read between the lines of Curtis's half-truths. "Why the sudden interest in Vlad?"

"Let's just say certain aspects of his business have sparked our interest for a number of reasons." Curtis leans in closer, lowering his voice. "Aren’t you curious at all about him?"

"Curiosity killed the cat," I remind him, a loaded statement that hangs in the tight space between us. Our past is a minefield, and every word treads close to detonation. Everything is mixed in—friendship, loyalty, cowardice, betrayal. I can’t untangle any of it anymore. It’s just an assortment of emotions cramming my chest.

"Good thing we have nine lives then, isn't it?" Curtis chuckles, his gaze never leaving mine. Something flickers in hiseyes as he keeps on looking at me. Maybe regret and guilt. But it’s gone just as quick as it appeared.

"Something like that," I concede, taking another sip of my whiskey.

Curtis leans back a little. All the pretentiousness fades away and his expression grows serious. It’s the face I know well, the face of my partner, the face of the man who watched my back for five years.

"You know, there's talk that Vlad had a hand in what happened to his old man," Curtis murmurs.

My heart throttles against my ribs, but I keep my face as still as the surface of a frozen lake. "Is that right?" My mind is spinning. Vlad’s mixed up in Yuri Solovey’s murder? Impossible. Or is it?

"Do you plan on arresting him?" I ask. If Vlad is in trouble, my job could be in trouble too, and I can’t afford to lose a gig paying this well right now. Not with my mother so sick.

"Thing is," Curtis continues, oblivious to the hurricane he's just unleashed in me, "arresting a guy like Solovey? It's like trying to handcuff smoke. He'd be out before the ink dried on the paperwork. Guy's got the best lawyers in the city."

"Sounds about right," I agree. He’s got the best everything in the city actually.

"The evidence is circumstantial. Won’t fly in front of any jury, even if half of them are paid to convict him."

"If the evidence is so weak, is it possible he’s not the one?" I ask, for some stupid reason hoping that Vlad is a decent person. He’s treated me right. I haven’t seen anything suspicious happening in his place. The exception is the hit on Sasha, of course. But Curtis doesn’t need to know that. Not my job to tell him.

"It’s strange that Isaac Thoreau's gone missing the same day Yuri was executed," Curtis adds, eyes scanning the room likeradar, always searching for something. "Word is he's mixed up in all this mess, but without proof, it's just whispers in the wind."

I file away every syllable, a mental ledger of debts to be collected. Thoreau's name is a new entry here, a possible link to whatever hell is gunning for Sasha. At least that’s what I think first. I still need to process this information. "How's Connie and the junior?" I ask, steering the conversation into safer waters, not wanting to talk about Vlad.

"Great, great. Aiden just started Little League," Curtis replies, his guard dropping with the mention of his family, a faint smile softening his features.

"Good to hear." I nod once, sharply, and knock back the glass with a practiced tilt of my head.

At least my decision five years ago resulted in something positive.

I sit at the edge of the chair, fingers woven tightly around the thin hospital blanket that covers my mother's frail legs.

"Ma, Doc says he’ll check about a trial," I start, my voice steady but it feels like I'm pushing the words through gravel. "New drugs. Could be promising."

Ma’s eyes are dull when she looks at me, no longer the vibrant pools of life they used to be. She shakes her head and a shadow passes over her face, the kind that no light can touch. "I don't want it, baby."

"Ma, please," I beg, the desperation creeping into my voice despite my best efforts. "We can't just give up."

"Sweetheart," she murmurs, her hand—a map of veins and fragile bones—reaches for mine and I let her take it, "I've fought enough. I'm tired."

My heart is a drumbeat against a dam about to burst. "But this could be it, the thing that—"

"Logan." Her voice is a whisper, but it halts me, slices through the chaos brewing inside. "I'm too old to be someone's guinea pig."

A solitary tear betrays me, carving a hot path down my cheek. I blink away its companion, threatening to follow.

"Let me go home," she says, softly as I adjust the beanie on her head with my other hand. "Let me have my balcony garden, my bed... my dignity."

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