Page 73 of Unspoken

"Possible," Stan admits, rubbing at the stubble on his chin. "Considering Shtyk still thinks Yuri's businesses should've gone to him. But listen, man, with Vlad in hot water right now because of the Arellano cartel, you're in danger too."

"I know," I reply tersely, fully aware of the risk I'm taking just by asking these questions. "But I’m already in this shit. Might as well prepare myself for what’s coming."Or what’s coming for Sasha.

"Alright." Stan's expression is serious. "Just be careful, Logan. I mean it."

We lapse into silence for a moment before Stan continues sharing more of the intel he's gathered. "Solovey was a fucking plague. Had his hands in all sorts of dirty dealings–blackmail, extortion, torture, taking out rivals back in Russia. Taking out public figures who spoke out against him. My buddy at the Bureau says everyone is happy he’s dead. Be it Vlad’s doing or someone else. They deserve a fucking medal."

I clench my jaw at the thought of all the bad shit Yuri Solovey did. I can’t fathom how a man like this made a son like Sasha. They are nothing alike. My father had always warned me aboutpeople like Yuri, always told me to be wary of the ones wearing expensive suits.

"If it really was Vlad, he might've had a good reason for wanting his old man out of the picture," Stan adds, his words heavy with implication. "And honestly, the more I think about it, the more it appears that you may be right. Isaac Thoreau disappearing and Vlad suddenly getting his crew and his club looks fishy to me."

"True." I recollect the chaos surrounding Thoreau’s exit last year. It was all over the news. "No one's seen him since Yuri's death?"

"Nope. Nada. The man vanished."

"What about that FBI agent they said went rogue?"

"Same. Gone."

"Shit, that’s messed up," I mutter, my mind racing as all this new information comes in. There's more to this situation than meets the eye. But it’s not mine to deal with. My job is to protect Sasha and my gut tells me to focus my attention on Shtyk and not people no longer in the picture.

"Look, Logan," Stan says, his tone firm but caring. "I'll help you however I can, but don't go poking your nose where it doesn't belong. You've already been through enough."

"Appreciate it," I reply, feeling a surge of gratitude for my friend's unwavering loyalty. "It means a lot."

We lift our beer bottles in unison, clinking them together in a silent toast before taking long swigs.

Every fiber in my being tells me to follow my friend’s advice and leave it alone. But can I leave it alone if the truth can help me keep Sasha safe? I know full well that the path to this truth I so want to find is paved with danger–and that sometimes, the only way out is to dive headfirst into the darkness.

CHAPTER 25

SASHA

I sit on the couch downstairs, laptop open on my lap as I browse through class options for the next semester. Graphic design has always been my passion, and I can't afford to let it slip away from me. Besides, I’m not going to Aunt Irina’s place back in Russia. Vlad casually threw this threat out the other day during breakfast again. Then asked me if I’d finally decided to apply myself.

Apply my arse.

And as much as I hate it, that lying wanker wins for once.

With the current semester being halfway through, spring seems like a good point in time to start making up all those classes I missed because of what happened in London. Andrey has already handled the transfers for me. All I have to do is just choose the rest.

The thought of my friend buried and no longer able to do all those fun things we discussed we would do after graduating has me shriveling on the inside. Even the impressive sight of Logan sitting across and reading something on his iPad doesn’t help.

I have to shut my eyes and try to persuade myself that Alfie would have wanted me to move on and maybe honor him bydoing what he wanted. But if I’m stuck with Aunt Irina or even in this house, I won’t get to do any of those things.

So, I snap my eyes open and point my attention to the online list of classes in front of me. Oddly enough, with each course I choose, I feel a renewed sense of determination. I need that diploma, no matter what obstacles come my way.

"Digital Illustration or Typography? Decisions, decisions," I mutter under my breath, scribbling notes in my well-worn notebook. In the back of the notebook, there's a page with an unfinished doodle of my secret boyfriend. Or at least that's what I like to call Logan in my head. I've been sketching him all morning.

Across the room, that very same secret boyfriend is completely engrossed in reading, probably some articles on gun control. It seems to be this huge thing in this country. I don’t get it. London life was simple. Calm. Filled with too many trips to pubs, cramming for exams, and Alfie’s fart competitions.

Here in Vegas, it’s more like I’m the main character of a horror movie. And not the good one with that character surviving, but the kind of movie where the villain is the only one still alive at the end.

Subtly, I steal several glances at Logan, recalling our moments together–the night in the hotel room after the Lake Mead trip, sleeping entwined in each other's arms in his cramped apartment, sharing breakfast like a proper couple in a cafe somewhere away from the hustle of the Strip. It feels like a lifetime ago, even though it was only days since the last time we kissed.

But now, with Vlad and Ivan back in the house, we have to pretend there's nothing between us. And it’s harder than I hoped it would be. There’s this charge in the air between us, like an invisible thread.

You're so bloody fit, I think to myself openly studying Logan’s bulging arms, then shake my head to erase the thought. Now is not the time for distractions. I need to finish selecting the right classes.And the sketch.

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