Page 90 of Rafi

“You can’t give up your life for ours,” Anton interjects, his voice softer now, tinged with something I can only describe as regret.

“I’m not giving up anything,” I say firmly, meeting Anton’s gaze head-on. “This is where I belong. I’ve been away far too long.”

“You were happy away from here,” Anton counters, his tone almost pleading.

“I was,” I admit. “And I’ll be happy here, too. With both of you.”

My smile is tight, forced, a mask I wear to keep the cracks from showing. But Anton doesn’t look convinced, and Igor remains silent, his gaze fixed on the table in front of him.

What they don’t understand is that this isn’t about happiness. It’s about duty, about family, about the bonds that tie us together no matter how much time or distance has passed.

Anton is my father. Igor is my father. It doesn’t matter whose blood runs through my veins—they are both my family, my world. I owe them everything, and I refuse to leave them now, not when they need me most.

But that doesn’t make it any easier to bear the weight of what I’ve done to Rafi.

I close my eyes for a moment, the memory flashing behind my lids like a cruel reminder. The way he looked at me when I told him it was over—like I had ripped the ground out from beneath him. His shoulders slumped, his eyes glassy with unshed tears, his hands clenching at his sides as if to keep himself from reaching for me.

No man has ever looked at me the way Rafi did, I remind myself. And no man ever will.

The sadness of coming to terms with that wraps around me like a vise, squeezing the air from my lungs. Every breath feels like a struggle, every beat of my heart a reminder of what I’ve lost. But I made my choice, and I have to live with it.

Anton clears his throat, drawing my attention back to the present. “Tayana,” he says gently, “we don’t want you to sacrifice your life for ours. You’ve already done enough.”

I shake my head, a small smile tugging at the corners of my lips. “You don’t understand, Papa. This isn’t a sacrifice. It’s where I’m meant to be.”

I look between the two men who raised me, who shaped me into the woman I am today. They are my heroes, my breath, my life. They are my devastation, my torture, my sorrow. They are my happiness, and yes, they are my sadness. Everything they’ve done up to now has been to keep me safe. To keep me out of harm’s way. And no matter how much it hurts to walk away from the man I love, I know I’m doing the right thing.

Because family has always come first. And it always will.

The countryside stretches outaround us, endless fields dotted with the occasional crooked tree, the horizon smudged with the faint glow of an impending sunset. The car purrs softly beneath us as we drive, the sound almost lulling. But there’s no lulling the ache in my chest. It sits there, heavy and raw, a wound that refuses to close.

Igor’s voice breaks the silence, steady and unassuming. “Your mother was a very beautiful woman.”

I glance at him, unsure where this is coming from. His profile is sharp in the dimming light, the lines of his face carved deeper by age and grief.

“I know,” I reply quietly, my voice careful. “I’ve seen the pictures. I still remember her.”

He hums thoughtfully, his fingers tapping the steering wheel in a slow rhythm. “You’re right, you know,” he says, almost to himself.

Something shifts in his tone, and I turn to face him, my breath catching.

“I couldn’t hold her attention long enough,” he says, his voice tinged with a faint, bittersweet humor. “That honor went to your father.” A tight smile tugs at his lips, but his eyes stay on the road. “He made her very happy, Tayana. Happier than I ever could have. Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt, but things work out the way they’re meant to.”

Guilt twists in my stomach, sharp and unforgiving. The words I hurled at him in anger still echo in my mind, as fresh as the moment I said them.

You couldn’t keep my mother by your side, but I’m the poor substitute who will never leave you.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “About what I said. I was angry. I didn’t mean it.”

“You meant it,” he counters gently, glancing at me with a knowing look. “But that’s just what I needed to hear.”

“I’m sorry, anyway,” I insist, the words thick in my throat.

He nods slightly, as if accepting the apology but not dwelling on it. “The handsome one,” he says suddenly, his tone shifting. “That Gatti boy. He makes you happy.”

The air leaves my lungs in a rush. My chest tightens, and for a moment, I can’t seem to breathe.

“He makes your heart sing,” Igor adds, his voice steady and calm, as if stating the most obvious fact in the world.

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