Page 43 of Unspoken

"Appreciate it," I murmur, voice barely audible over the lump forming in my throat. There's gratitude there, buried beneath layers of what-ifs and might-have-beens.

The priest asks if I want to say a word or two, but I’m in no condition. I’m still trying to come to terms with how to live my life without her.

We stand in silence, listening to Magda’s short emotional speech. Magda's voice trembles through the mourning air, a catalogue of recollections that stitch together my mother's life in patchwork eulogy. As she continues to speak, I catch a movement at the corner of my eye—a lone figure standing apart from the rest.

Sasha.

I didn’t ask him to come. Didn’t expect actually he’d show up. After all, I’m just a hired gun. Employed by his older brother to protect him. But his presence somehow calms me. Tells me it’s okay, tells me it’ll be okay.

I nod at Sasha, acknowledging him. Our gazes locked in quiet communion. There’s an invisible thread spun by loss, binding us. Two souls marooned on either shore of an ocean of grief. He stays at the edge, knowing our predicament too well, the murky waters where personal and professional bleed into one another.

The ceremony comes to the ritual of finality—people shuffling forward, scooping handfuls of dirt, letting it slip through their fingers into the grave. The dull thuds of soil hitting wood are like drumbeats. Each one is a punctuation mark at the end of a sentence that's taken a lifetime to write.

The crowd begins to thin out. People head over to their cars after offering their condolences once more.

I weave through the mass and toward the edge where Sasha’s lingering next to a palm tree.

"Thanks for coming," I murmur as I reach him, my voice low and raspy and thick. My tongue refuses to listen to me.

"Sorry about you mum," he mutters, scanning the horizon. His hands are tucked in the pockets of his black leather jacket.He’s wearing black slacks too and black shoes. He put an effort into looking appropriate, I realize, despite the heat.

"Are you alone?" I ask, worried.

"No. Ivan came with me." A tilt of his head directs my attention to where a familiar figure leans against a car parked in the line of cars that are here for the funeral. Ivan looks vigilant as always.

"Good," I exhale, relief mingling with sorrow. It's a strange comfort, knowing Sasha isn't unguarded, even here.

"But you’re coming back, right?" Sasha asks all of a sudden, his face seems younger. There’s a silent plea in his eyes.

"Of course. Why wouldn’t I?"

"I just—"

"Logan!" Stan calls out, breaking the moment. He strides over, his suit crisp, his expression solemn. He glances at Sasha, offering a tip of the chin as a way of subtle greeting. "Father Thomas wants a word, brother," he whispers to me.

"Right," I say, torn from the fragile bubble of Sasha's vicinity.

"Thanks again," I tell Sasha before Stan takes me over to see the priest.

"Who's the young blood?" Stan nods at Sasha we left behind.

"Nobody," I mutter, but the lie tastes bitter. I’m choking on the truth, swallowing it down like broken glass.

Alexander Solovey isn’t nobody.

Far from it.

"You alright?" Stan checks.

"Just want to go home," I confess.

Go home and close my eyes and not wake up until the pain is over.

CHAPTER 16

SASHA

The golden tooth winks in my mind's eye the same way it did when the man smiled—too evil—about Vlad and my father. I'm on the terrace, nicking bites of toast, not really tasting them, while the Vegas sky churns a moody gray. I'm told it’s proper rare, this weather in the desert in summer, and it makes me ache for London and Alfie's crooked grin. But that ache twists into something else as I chew over what the man said. If Vlad really had something to do with Father’s death.

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