Page 7 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

Like the idea that, perhaps one day, when we’re old and tired-out and dying anyway, maybe I’ll see him again. For an afternoon. An hour. A few minutes. A wave.

I rise, throw my gaze up.

Remaining here, drunk and alone, is a fool’s idea. A coward’s pastime. I should get up and go about my business. And yet, I can’t force myself to leave. Not until I’ve sorted out this cancer of the mind.

Today, my own mind turned against me. My emotions got the better of my logic. I succumbed to weakness.

Osip always had to die; I knew that.

But now he walks free, because of what I did.

Through the skylight overhead, the once-gray sky is navy with night. I close my eyes and picture the scene outside. In an unmarked BMW sedan with tinted windows, Osip is being driven to the bus station. A man sits by his side with a gun in his lap, aimed squarely at my brother to keep him rooted to his seat. Soon, he will be dropped off, with a ticket in his hand and the clothes on his back, left to find a new life in a new world. Alone. Without his brother by his side.

There is the other thing to consider, too. Not just what Osip is, or what he has become, right under my nose. There is also the question:

What amIbecoming?

Because if Osip can go bad, can rot inside-out like a watermelon, unnoticed until it collapses in on itself … then can’t I?

Of course I can. We all can.

We aren’t dealing in Fischer Price toys and Beanie Babies. Every other day, we hold people’s lives and livelihoods in the palms of our hands. That’s why the rules are so important. The day we start disregarding them is the day the Bratva starts caving in on itself.

I swish the amber liquid around the bottle.

That day may be today. My brother broke the rules. In turn, I broke the rules, too.

But what of other laws—the law of brotherhood, of promises made years ago?

“Promise me, Gavril, that you’ll …”

What about that?

Was I supposed to kill my own brother? How could I?

I lean back in the red chair. It creaks below me, shuddering. It doesn’t want me—I’m not accused. Or maybe even the red chair quakes with all that I’ve done. What I’ve begun to do.

I think of a quote that Osip and I once loved:If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.

I take another long swig, and then another.

Today, I made a terrible mistake. I know that.

And yet—and this is why I sit here still—I know that if I had to, I would do it again in a heartbeat.

I don’t know what to make of that.

2

Joy

Gotcha!

On tiptoe, I lean over the metal shelf as far as I can. My fingertips clamp down on the cardboard box. As I move it to join the row of the other boxes, I mutter, “Sayonara, Honey Nut Cheerios.”

As usual, Ruben stashed another grocery item wherever the fancy struck him, as opposed to putting it, you know… where it actually freaking belongs.

It’s irritating as hell, but I have to admit that I get a little twisted spurt of pleasure when I find one of these misplaced loners.

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