Chapter 5

As I drive back to our house, I find that I feel less and less like myself with every minute that passes.

I am used to being in control, calculated even. I think before I act and always plan ten steps ahead. This has prevented my organization from spiraling and my brain from becoming too overwhelmed to keep up with my schedule.

However, the loss of control I have in my life now makes me feel like a train trying to push forward with no tracks. There is nothing to grip onto. There is no clear path ahead.

Holding the hand of my baby girl, while she laid lifeless in Cillian’s arms, killed me. Part of my soul will never come back from this. It will forever be tainted with sorrow and grief.

I pull up to the house and head directly to the garage, wanting to bypass any of the kids at this time of the morning. They are likely sleeping, and I do not wish to wake them.

Instead, I decide to do something to distract my mind. Cutting the engine, I make a mental list of all of the tasks that need to be completed.

At least if I can focus on this, then I am not thinking about the reason my heart is lying obliterated on the floor of a hospital room.

Clean the kitchen. Do the dishes. Do not think about the cupcakes.

Wipe the counters. Sweep the floors. Do not think about the cupcakes.

Vacuum under the cabinets. Clean out the sink. Throw away the cupcakes. Do not allow yourself to think about the fucking cupcakes.

Once the list is fortified and I have gone through it at least ten times, I get out of the car. Refusing to even so much as think until I hit the kitchen, I push my mind into a blank space where nothing exists. No emotions, no death or life. Just nothingness.

Yet, when I walk into the room and flick on the lights, I can’t help but think of the last time I was here.

No. Think of nothing. Just nothing.

Swiftly, I pull out the cleaning supplies from the cabinet and prepare myself for my list of tasks. Where there is structure, there is sense.

The moment my hand touches the plate holding perfectly frosted cupcakes, my mind floods me with the past.

Just think of nothing. Don’t let it get to you. Nothing. Nothing.

But it is no use, my emotions are too raw, my mind too broken, and the memory sweeps me away.

I pick her up in my arms, her joy as tangible as her skin beneath my fingers. We are having a baby.

Nessa smiles at me as she places mine and Cillian’s hand on her stomach. “Together,” she says.

“Together,” we echo.

I picture what having a boy or girl would look like. Will the dessert be pink or blue? Which nursery will she choose, what name did she love the most?

My hand reaches for the cupcake just as a sharp ring fills the air.

I do not know how I came to sit on the ground or when my cheeks began to feel damp. I shake my head, knowing I cannot just sit here accomplishing nothing. There are things that need to be done, and none of them will be completed while I am sitting here on my ass.

Wiping my face, I get up to resume cleaning the kitchen again. The chef will be here soon to start cooking breakfast for the kids, and no one deserves to walk into an unkempt space. This is something I can control.

Except, when I pick up the cupcake Nessa made to throw it in the trash, a piece of paper unfolds slightly under it, causing me to pause.

My throat feels tight as I reach for it, but it is nothing compared to the burn that comes to my face when I read the single word written there.

Aiden.

All of my life I have trained myself to be in control, but this one word, this name causes everything in me to snap.

My hand slides across the counter, sending the dish that held the perfect pink cupcakes flying across the floor, making a perfect mimicry of my heart as it shatters.

The flour and food coloring follow, starbursts of pink mocking me as they stain the room. Spatulas clatter against the tile. Icing coats the cabinets as the bag explodes under the force of my wrath.

A vase of flowers shatters, sending the water inside all over the room. Eggs crack against the freshly painted walls, leaving a trail of yellow yolk dripping down the once pristine surface.

Everything is thrown until there is nothing left. Glass and ceramic shards litter the area, likely to cut anyone who comes in here. But no one else is on my mind right now other than the two girls I failed to protect. One laying in a morgue, the other in a hospital bed fighting for her life.

An anguished cry leaves my lips as I lift the chair from the table and slam it back down, causing the legs to splinter off. It is still not enough though. My fist meets the wall, crunching along with the plaster.

Nothing is ever going to be enough.

I roar in rage over the injustice as I cause a hurricane of destruction in my path. Nothing will ever be right again, I know it in the depths of my soul. Something has shattered within me that can no longer be put back together.

When the ruination of the room around me is no longer enough, I begin to pull at my hair as I sob, falling to my knees among the shards of glass. My chest burns with despair ripping apart every fiber of my being.

Am I having a heart attack?

Rubbing at the muscle that is certainly failing me, I fight more tears and look at the room that is a physical echo of my soul. It cannot survive the pain, and neither can I.

Just as the edges of my vision turn black, a hand lands on my arm. My first instinct is to lash out, to hurt as I hurt.

I need someone, something, to reflect the gut wrenching pain I feel from head to toe. I need blood, bruises, split knuckles, and pure violence. I need an outlet for the tornado of destruction locked in my chest.

My fist collides with a jaw, and Damien’s face jerks to the side. His shock is evident. But where I expected anger, there only seems to be humor.

“My father could hit better than that,” he goads.

I know I could hit him again. We could brawl it out right here on the floor in the mess I have created, and Damien would take every single second of it.

I am sorely tempted to allow the anger to win. Damien would let me too. He is the kind of man that would sacrifice his mental health for another. But I am not his abusive father, and I will not be the one to subject him to that kind of wrath ever again.

This is not the kind of man I would have been to my daughter, and it is not who I will be without her. Especially to a man I have come to consider one of my sons.

The moment brings me some much needed clarity, even amidst the storm still raging in the forefront of my mind.

“You can hit me, Daddy B, if that’s what it’s going to take.”

I lower my arm, not knowing what to do as Lev walks beside Damien and rests a hand on my shoulder. He carefully pulls out the last remaining chair from the table beside us, and without thought, I sit.

“Sometimes,” Lev says softly as he leans against Damien, who is now perched on the counter, “we just need to sit together in our grief. We can’t begin to understand how you feel, Boris, but we can sit here with you for as long as it takes. Until you’re ready.”

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I am unable to meet his gaze as I stare at my already bruised and bloodied knuckles, the pain not yet registering.

“Ready for what?” My voice is broken and hardly above a whisper.

“For the next step,” Lev states simply.

Time passes as we sit there, emotions threatening to overwhelm me every few minutes. I alternate between placing my head in the crook of my arm to cry and picking at the wounds trying to seal on my hands.

Through it all, they sit there with me. Never speaking a word but always lending a silent touch. I have never had men in my corner before; I’ve always had to do it alone.

I see now why Dr. K tells us that family is important, why connection is important. That piece of me I believed could never be mended begins to feel a little less shattered than before.

“What is the next step?” I ask, my eyes unable to spill anything else.

Lev shrugs. “Whatever you want it to be.”

The destruction around me sets in. “Maybe we should clean up. Where is the chef?”

Damien snorts. “You scared him away. Don’t worry, Havoc got him back and took him to the other kitchen.”

I don’t even remember him coming in here. “We should clean this up. I also need to make calls to the parents of the children who did not make it.”

“No.” A feisty redhead walks into the room with frustration evident in every step.

“That is my job, Boris,” Dr. K says. “Your job is to go back to the hospital and be with the one you love.”

I look away from her, but she invades my space. “As a therapist, my job is to help you come to the realization that you are being an ignorant child all on your own. But quite simply, I do not have time for that.”

She leans down so that our faces are only inches apart. I have no choice but to look at the barely controlled frustration in her eyes.

“There are children here who need me, a confused child at the hospital who will not leave Nessa’s side, and a barely contained Cillian on the cusp of a killing spree. When Nessa wakes up, she is going to need all of us, but mostly, she is going to need you . So get up and go be with her. You can be sad there while also saving your relationship and supporting the woman you love.”

I stand swiftly, my chair almost falling back. “My grief is my own to carry,” I snap. “I am aware that everyone here is hurting, but it is my job to process this on my own just as it is yours.”

She is unfazed by my words and my temper.

“No. It is not.” She steps into me until we are almost chest to chest. Dr. K is a thin woman, but her height is nearly the same as my six-foot-three, making her cool blue gaze lock onto mine.

“Your grief is all of ours, but mostly it is Nessa’s to share with you. I will not allow you to cause her more pain today. You promised her together, Boris. This is where you mean it.”

Evie steps into the room then, a perfect harmony of fury and pain battling in her eyes. “Are you willing to lose her? For good this time?”

I am about to argue, to tell her she does not get to decide what I do, when my son walks into the room. His face is red, and I have never seen him filled with such grief.

“Do you know what Nessa said to me when I spoke with her about your relationship?”

I had no idea he had said anything to her.

I shake my head. His jaw ticks as he gets closer to me, anger radiating from every step.

“She said that she loved you like the feeling of freedom and the comfort of home. If she wakes up alone, you are keeping that comfort from her, and I do not know if any of us will be able to forgive you for that.”

“Son,” I choke out, reaching for him. Alexi rarely shows emotion, but when he does, it is monumental.

“No, Father.” He takes a step back. “You have a choice to make. We are all grieving. I allowed you to push me away when we lost Mother, but I will not allow you to do the same to Nessa. You will be better, or there will be consequences.”

I scoff at him, my body tensing, ready for a fight.

“You are not one to offer me consequences, Son.”

Alexi stands tall, adjusting the sleeves of his suit before reaching out and holding Evie’s hand.

“I am the leader of the Bratva now. Evie runs the Mafie Society. If you mess with our family, I can assure you we will use our power to exile you. Is that what you want?”

It feels like I am being attacked when I was the one who just lost a child. My hands shake with anger, but their words hit home. I tighten my lips, gritting my teeth to hold back the rage and sorrow. Instead I look at Dr. K and she nods, jingling her car keys as she moves to leave.

“I need to speak with Kai this morning, now that I’ve helped the children with breakfast. I’ll drive you.”

Before we leave, Lev walks up to me with pity in his eyes and places a hand on my shoulder.

“We understand your pain, Boris. Because of this, we are trying to help you not make a difficult situation worse.”

I pat his hand with mine, incapable of words at the moment. To be a coward is simpler. To hide and walk away is the easy choice. Neither of those things are who I am, nor are they what Nessa deserves right now.

“Even sitting in the silence is enough,” he whispers before walking back into the room.