Page 139 of Bratva's Vow
“Is this…?” His voice cracked. Broke.
“Your father,” I said softly. “These are his ashes.”
Silence blanketed the room, disturbed only by the soft whimper of the dog. Wren continued to stare at the urn as if it were too profound, too painful to touch. A singular tear slipped down his cheek, followed shortly by another. His gaze never left the urn.
“You had this all along?” he whispered. “All this time I came so close…”
He took the urn.
He took it like it was a newborn. Like it might fall apartin his arms if he wasn’t gentle enough. His fingers trembled. His lips parted in a breath that didn’t come.
Tears fell again. Not fast, not loud. Just a steady, painful unraveling. He sank to the floor, clutching the urn against his chest like he could fuse with it, like he could turn back time if he held it tight enough.
“How did he die?” he asked, so quietly it barely reached me.
I lowered myself beside him, my knees aching under the weight of what I’d carried. Finally, he’d asked the question I’d been waiting for. How could we truly move on if we didn’t talk about it all?
“He was good at his job,” I said. “The moment I first met him, I knew he was special. He worked logistics for us, ensured my most valuable assets were moved without an issue. He was the kind of man who never needed to raise his voice to command a room. Everyone respected him. Hell, I admired him.”
Wren’s shoulders shook silently, and god, his pain was unbearable to watch.
I swallowed hard, throat raw. “He was overseeing the movement of a valuable asset through the eastern corridor. Should’ve been routine. But someone tipped off the wrong people. They killed him for what he was protecting and he didn’t hand it to them. He never told them where he’d hidden it, even though they stripped him and searched him inside out.”
Wren made a small sound in his throat. A whimper. Broken.
“Did-did he suffer?”
Fuck, why did I promise to be truthful to him? But I’d promised. No more lies.
“They tortured him for at least three days.”
A cry tore from Wren that cut through my skin andpierced my heart. Jellybean howled alongside him, and a cold draft washed over me. Wren sobbed openly now, those horrible sounds filling the room as he clutched what was left of his father to him.
“I brought him home,” I forced the words out. “He’d already decided that when he died, he wanted me to send him back to you when you turned twenty-five. When you were old enough to understand. I’m breaking my promise to him to give this to you because I don’t want anything standing between us anymore. I want everything out in the open.”
Wren’s arms tightened around the urn like it was the only thing anchoring him to the world.
“I was just a kid,” he sobbed. “And I waited. I waited for him to show up for my birthday like he said he would, and he didn’t. Every birthday, I waited, making my mother angry, but I was sure one day he would show up and explain. Daddy?—”
Wren’s cry was no longer his own, but that of a little boy who’d loved and lost his father. A little boy finally getting the closure he deserved. It was raw, unfiltered grief—years of unanswered questions and silent nights unraveling all at once. The sound of it cracked something open in the walls, like even the house couldn’t bear witness without weeping. And still he held the urn like it was a lifeline, as if he could anchor himself to a man made of ashes and memory.
The sobs that tore out of him sounded like they had been buried in him for years.
“I’m sorry, solnyshko. I’m so fucking sorry.”
He was shaking, gasping, sobbing so hard he dropped the urn to his lap and covered his face with his hands.
“I miss him,” he cried. “I miss him so bad, Maxim. It feels like I’m being ripped open from the inside out. He was a good dad, and all I have left of him is a broken promise to be there for my birthday and his ashes. What am I supposed to do with this now?”
Jellybean whined beside him, then nosed into his lap and licked the tears off Wren’s cheeks. Wren curled around him like a boy trying to bury himself in something soft. If only he would bury himself in my arms and find comfort, but how could I impose myself on him when I was the reason for his grief?
I ran my hand over the dog’s head and whispered, “Stay with him, malysh. He needs you.”
It took everything out of me to stand, heart breaking, throat aching, and walked out. But if Wren needed the moment to grieve, I should be the last person trying to comfort him. What right did I have?
Maybe he would have been better if he hadn’t met me.
Back upstairs, the bed felt too wide. The room too dark. I lay on my back and stared at the ceiling, listening to the echo of Wren’s grief still pounding in my ears, even though I could no longer hear him.
