Page 84 of Unspoken

Around us, the small hole-in-the-wall place buzzes with chatter and sizzling grills. English and Spanish are mixed in the air. Peeling posters advertise local bands and colorful art adorns the bright yellow walls. The tangy scent of tomatillo salsa and charred meats fills my nostrils. This place has been my escape from the grit of the Vegas streets since I was old enough to earn my own money. And it feels monumental to be able to share it with the man who brings meaning to my life after I've lost all my family.

As I take a swig of my Coke, a memory of my mother surfaces, unbidden.

Live. Truly live, Logan. Don't let the shadows of this world swallow you whole.

A familiar ache settles in my chest.

Your life is yours alone. No one else gets to tell you how to walk it.

And I want to believe it. Want to believe that taking Sasha from Vlad, separating him from the Solovey name and making him mine is easy. But it’s not.

"You alright there, mate? You look like you've seen a ghost." Sasha's British accent, so out of place here, cuts through my trance.

I clear my throat. "I'm good. Just thinking."

He raises an eyebrow but doesn't press further, taking another enthusiastic bite of his taco.

"Careful, you're getting hooked on this stuff," I tease, nodding at his plate. "Won't be able to go back to tea and crumpets after all this flavor."

"Sod off." Sasha chuckles, licking a spot of salsa off his thumb. "I'm in love. Might have to marry a taco at this rate."

I snort. "Good luck getting Vlad's blessing on that union."

Sasha's smile tightens at the mention of his brother. A shadow flickers across his face, there and gone. He takes a long sip of horchata as if washing away an unpleasant taste.

The dark ink on my arm itches, the scar on my temple throbbing, both reminders of roads I can't go back down. I should change the subject, steer us toward safer waters.

Because, in the end, it’s up to him. It’s his family.

But behind Sasha's easy charm, I see that haunted look. The same look I used to see in the mirror, before I learned to bury it deep. I want to tell him I understand. That he's not alone in this.

I open my mouth, searching for the right words. But they lodge in my throat, trapped behind years of silence and secrets. The moment stretches taut between us, heavy with words—once again—unsaid.

No, I tell myself. It’s not why we’re here today. We don’t get to be ourselves at home and now that Vlad is gone, we have this small pocket of time to just be and not look over our shoulders, however short.

I clear my throat, forcing the words out. "So, what's the plan after you finish up your degree? You gonna keep pursuing a career in graphic design?"

Sasha's fingers tighten around his glass, his gaze darting away. "I...I want to. It's my passion, you know? Creating something, something that speaks to people." He shrugs, a bitter twist to his lips. "But I’m sure you know my family, they have...expectations. Vlad probably wants me to work for him." He chuckles darkly. "Imagine me slapping labels on crates of cocaine or something in some dingy warehouse."

The resignation in his voice sets my teeth on edge. I lean forward, catching his eyes. "Sasha, listen to me. You've got a gift, a real talent. Don't let anyone tell you different, not even Vlad."

"How do you know I have a talent?"

"I’ve seen some of the stuff you do on your iPad when you think no one is looking, brat."

Sasha's brow furrows, a flicker of hope warring with doubt in his eyes. "You really think so?"

"I know so," I insist. "There's a reason you're in school, studying what you love, what you chose, not what was chosen for you. Maybe your family sent you off to London so you could follow your own path, be your own man."

Sasha huffs out a laugh, but there's no humor in it. "That's a very American way of thinking, Logan. All that freedom and self-determination." He shakes his head, his accent thickening and now it’s a strange mix of British and Russian, like all these personalities are battling inside him. "Where I'm from, you're born into a role, a set of expectations. And when you're part ofa family like mine, with money and power...well, let's just say there's no room for a gay son with a head full of dreams."

The bitterness in his tone cuts deep, echoing the old anger that simmers in my own veins. I remember some of the guys back on the force dropping homophobic jokes and laughing at them and it made my stomach churn.

I reach across the table, my hand hovering near his. "You're not in Russia anymore, Sasha. Those old rules, those expectations...they don't have to define you here. In Vegas, you can be whoever the hell you want to be."

Sasha's eyes meet mine, a glimmer of desperate hope shining brighter and brighter through the fear. His fingers twitch, brushing against mine for the briefest moment. A spark ignites beneath my skin, a jolt of something I haven't felt in a long, long time.

"Hey," he says quietly. "I have something for you."

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