Page 101 of One of Them

With a wide grin, she finally turned to us.

“I always wanted a sister.” A sloppy kiss landed on my cheek. “Even if you end up dumping his ass,” she whispered between hiccups and giggles.

“Hey!” Maxim protested, his voice filled with humor.

Ignoring his sister’s eye roll, Maxim embraced her. When his gaze landed on Enzo next, he didn’t miss the chance to tease.

“I guess you’re stuck with me now,” my man grinned.

“You’re a costly fucker,” my best friend shot back.

By the way things were shaping up, there was no choice but to accept the reality the two found themselves in.

“To Tay and Maxim,” Enzo smiled, raising his glass in a toast. “Let them live dangerously and love even more furiously.”

Everyone cheered. Even though it felt exaggerated, we lived for the small wins. The little moments that gave us a reason to celebrate.

When the crowd settled, a bittersweet laugh escaped the Sicilian. Before he opened his mouth, I knew the next words would come as a warning.

“If you hurt her, she and I will bury you alive.” A daring grin flashed on his face, but Alisa was there to wipe it away with a poke to his ribs.

I looked at the man and saw the brother I had never had. My legs carried me over to where he stood, and I squeezed his arm in appreciation for all he’d done and was willing to do.

We all fought hard for what we had, for where we were. And we’ll never stop fighting.

Later that night, or early morning, I lay in Maxim’s gigantic bed beside the man who had erased all my previous experiences and replaced them with his own.

Filled with excitement, I couldn’t sleep. Even with my legs peeking out from under the blanket, I kept shifting, savoring the slow spread of warmth in my chest. Maxim’s arm lay across it, and I spent a good hour decoding his tattoos, their ink softly illuminated by the fire.

In a ghost touch, I traced the outline of the butterfly, attempting to read the story the art told: the good, the bad, and the downright ugly.

By the time my bladder threatened to explode, the clock was nearing dawn. Careful not to wake him, I slipped outof bed.

In the darkness of the bathroom, I turned my phone back on, using it as a light. Operating on autopilot, I quickly took care of things, washing my hands before checking in on the world while the house slept soundly.

Maxim’s soft breaths came from the room, pulling me back, so I hurried.

My fingers managed to bypass the security, but before I could get to the web, a message popped up on one of my work servers.

An unverified source had attached a video.

Who?

Eager to find out, I lowered the volume and played the clip. The screen revealed nothing but pitch-black darkness, making me suspicious of its origins. Just as I thought it was a scam, a single light flickered on, revealing a square room about the size of a small bedroom. Concrete walls surrounded the space, and an industrial lamp hung above a wooden chair.

There, tied up with her hands behind her back, sat a woman. Her head bobbed from side to side, the soft sounds of protest filling the otherwise silent room.

It couldn’t be.

Just as I leaned in for a closer look, a man stepped out of the shadows behind her. A brutalized hand, covered in scars or burns, I couldn’t tell, appeared in the frame. He grabbed the woman’s head, forcing her to face the camera.

Alisa?

My legs threatened to give out, the confirmation too shocking, too raw, awakening every nerve ending in response.

I leaned against the counter, my grip tightening for support, my body bracing for impact.

“Ilya Aistov,” the individual called the name maliciously.

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