Page 121 of Unrequited
A pause. A breath.
“AKopolov.”
I keep my face still, unreadable, even as my chest cracks wide open.
“She’s not the enemy.”
His eyes flash. “Oh no? Thenyouare.”
The words hit like a gavel. Final.
“This syndicate is splintering because of you. Because of this. You’re sleeping, literally sleeping, with the enemy.”
He throws a hand in the air, pacing the way he always does when he’s balancing on the edge of losing control. His voice grows louder.
“This family is teetering. I could be exiled for this. Killed.”
“I need you to trust me,” I say. The words don’t tremble. They vibrate with threat. With conviction and truth.
The study flashes behind my eyes, dusty books, cracked leather, the smell of stale cigars. I remember what it felt like to be called reckless. To be punished.
But I’m not that boy anymore.
“I’ve told you before, and I’ll tell you again. Your friend, your golden boy Branson? He’s a fucking traitor.” My words are a loaded gun.
His jaw tightens, and his eyes lock on mine.
“You’ve said that,” he spits. “You don’t know how loyal he is. You don’t know what he’s done for this family.”
“Why don’t I, then?” I say, shrugging one shoulder. “Why was I, the one meant to inherit this throne, kept in the dark?”
He scoffs. “Jealousy,” he says, pointing a finger at me like it’s a curse. “That’s what this is.”
But it’s not.
I shake my head slowly. “No. The Irish aren’t splintering becauseImarried a Kopolov. They’re splintering because ofhim.”
But he won’t see it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Because Branson showed up when I was too young. Too impulsive. And my father never looked back.
My father has a hard time letting go of control. Always has. He allowed just this one friend in, just one, because that man proved himself. In my father’s eyes, loyalty is everything.
In that moment, standing across from him, he is as immovable as the stone pillars surrounding us. “I’m ashamed of you,” he says, shaking his head.
It burns. It stings.
A sharper blow than any blade. Sharper than any strike I’ve taken to the ribs or jaw. I taste bile and swallow it down like poison.
“I need you to trust me,” I say, softer this time, almost pleading. He leans in close.
His whisper is deeper than his threats. “You murdered her betrothed, Seamus. They’ll come for blood, son.”
I shake my head. “Not if I can help it.”
My breathing evens out, steady now. Every lesson he taught me, every scar he gave me, I’ll use them all. I’ll make them my armor.
I know she’s being held somewhere secure. I pray she is. Somewhere close. I tell myself maybe my mother is near, maybe Bronwyn’s with her, two women with hearts made of iron and gold. Maybe they’ll protect her for now, shield the rest.
