Page 55 of Porcelain Lies

“You promised me you were clean.” My voice shakes.

“I tried, okay?” He jerks away, rubbing his arm. “But life got complicated, and I needed something—”

“Something?You needed drugs and gambling while I planned two funerals?” The rage builds, hot and fierce in my chest. “Where were you when I had to identify Dad’s body? When I sorted through Mom’s clothes?”

Nick shrinks back. “Stels—”

“Don’t ‘Stels’ me! I called you every day. Every single day, Nick!” My fist slams against the counter. “But you were too busy shooting up and pissing away stolen money to answer?”

“You don’t understand—”

“Understand what? That my little brother chose drugs over his family? That he’d rather gamble with mob money than help me figure out who killed our father?”

Nick’s face crumples, tears cutting tracks through the grime on his cheeks. “They’re going to kill me.”

The raw terror in his voice stops my next accusation cold. His hands shake as he wraps his arms around himself, looking so much like the little boy who used to crawl into my bed during thunderstorms.

“Tarasov doesn’t forgive theft,” he whispers. “They already…” His fingers brush the bruising on his jaw. He doesn’t need to elaborate.

“Tarasov’s a really bad guy, Stels. The worst of the worst.”

Fuck.

Shit.

Fuck!

I want so badly to tell him to get lost. To kick him out and let him sort out his own shit. But instead, the anger drains from me, replaced by an icy fear. Nick might be a mess, might have made horrible choices, but he’s still my brother. Still the only family I have left.

I pace the kitchen, stepping carefully around the broken mug and spilled coffee. Each turn brings me past the familyphotos on the fridge — Mom, Dad, Nick, and me at graduation. Happy, whole, alive. Now I’m the only one left standing.

“They sent someone to my digs yesterday.” Nick’s voice cracks. “I barely got out. Had to climb down the fire escape in my boxers.”

My fingers curl into fists. “And you led them here?”

“No! I made sure…” He swallows hard. “I took back streets, doubled back. But they’ll find me eventually. Tarasov’s people are everywhere.”

“What people exactly?” I stop pacing, studying Nick’s battered face.

“Russian enforcers.” Nick’s eyes dart around the kitchen like he expects them to materialize from the shadows. “They have this system — tattoos that show rank. The guy who came for me? His whole chest was covered. Said he’d cut out my tongue first, then—”

“Stop.” I press the heels of my palms over my eyes, trying to think. “We need to get you somewhere safe.”

“There is no place safe!” Nick waves his arms, knocking over his untouched coffee. “You don’t get it — these aren’t street thugs. They’re organized, professional. They have connections everywhere — police, government…”

“Jesus,” I whisper.

“You have to help me, Stella. Please.” His voice is colored with desperation.

“And just how do you propose that I do that?” I snap.

“I… I thought that maybe…” His lips pinch together. “You have a good job, make decent money. Maybe you have some cashed saved, and you could go to him and—”

“What?” I half-yell, my temper shooting through the roof. “You want me to clean out my savings and go to negotiate with some fucking mafia boss?”

“Bratva,” he corrects me. “They’re Russian, not Italian.”

“Jesus Christ, Nick! I don’t fucking care!” I scream at him.

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