Page 218 of Inevitable Endings
I nod. “He’s… complicated. He comes with a past I wouldn’t wish on anyone, but so do I.”
There’s a long beat before she asks it, her voice quieter than I’ve ever heard it.
“What’s his name?”
I study her for a moment, then give it to her straight.
“Aslanov.”
The name hits the room like a ghost.
Her breath hitches. She goes still.
“The… Bratva head?”
Her voice trembles with something between fear and disbelief. I see the decades of mob stories, warnings, the scars of her own entanglement flash across her face.
I give her a gentle, almost tired smile.
“Ex-head.”
She blinks.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I add quickly. “And yes, he’s done things. Terrible things. But he loves me.”
Her eyes search mine, looking for cracks, looking for the girl I used to be. She finds a woman instead. One she doesn’t fully understand—but one she recognizes now, finally, as her own.
“Doyoulove him?” she asks.
I nod. “I do. A lot.”
She closes her eyes for a long moment, then opens them again. They’re tired, but soft.
“I don’t know if I trust the man,” she says. “But I trust you.And maybe… maybe that’s enough.”
My throat tightens.
“I forgive you,” I say, and the words feel like ripping stitches. “Not because I’m ready to forget. But because I need to move forward. And I want to leave this house with something other than rage.”
Her face crumples, and she reaches for me again, and this time, I fall into the embrace.
‘‘I’m sorry,’’ she whispers into my hair.
‘‘I’m sorry too,’’ I whisper back.
And for the first time, I mean it. I mean all of it.
We stay there, in the quiet hush of the kitchen, holding each other like two women clinging to what’s left of a fractured past. There’s nothing elegant about the moment—our breathing is uneven, tears streak both our faces, and the glass from the broken frame still glitters on the floor beside us like splintered time. But for the first time in my life, I don’t feel like that little girl waiting for someone to save her. I feel like someone whosurvived.
And so did she.
I pull back just enough to look at her, really look at her. Her eyes are swollen and red, her makeup smeared in the corners, her blouse clinging to her in the wrong places. But she looks lighter. And so do I.
“You should start over too,” I say softly, my hand still resting over hers. “You’re free now. Free from him. Free from them.”
She blinks, unsure, like she doesn’t quite believe it.
“Lorenzo is dead,” I tell her, and her breath stills. “I’ll spareyou the details.”
