Chapter 41

Chapter 40

Luka

"I-I didn't know. I'm sorry," Sophia stammers, her gaze lingering on the distant gravestones.

Suddenly Yulia rushes past, breaking the moment. I'm grateful for the distraction. "Luka, Max is being silly!"

"Slowly, Yulia!" Sophia calls, but her eyes stay locked with mine. They're wide pools, sucking me in. There's more of that goddamned silence, and now I'm really regretting bringing her here. Too many questions. Too much to explain.

Yulia returns, tugging on my sleeve. "Look at what I picked, Luka!"

I crouch down to her level and take a moment to admire the bunch of flowers she thrusts in my direction. "Mama would have loved these, Yulia. She loved wildflowers."

"Did she?" Yulia looks at me, her innocent eyes wide with curiosity. "I was too small when she went to heaven."

"Da, you were just a baby, maly?ka," I confirm, scooping her up and hoisting her onto my shoulders. From her perch atop my six-foot-three frame, she must feel like she's on top of the world.

"Let's go show these to Mama and Papa, yes?" I suggest, turning toward the hill where my parents rest. Yulia chatters happily as we start our trek up. Behind us, I hear Sophia's soft footsteps following.

We make it to the top of the hill, the tombstones looming before us – extravagant in their melancholy beauty. I feel Sophia fall silent beside me, taking in the view.

Yulia wriggles down from my shoulders, her feet making small imprints in the grass as she approaches the tombstones.

"Hi, Mama, Papa," she begins, her little voice filled with an emotion far too heavy for her age. "I miss you, Papa…" Her voice wavers, her little fists clenched tight around the wildflowers.

She doesn't cry, though. She's an Ivankov, after all. We're made of sterner stuff.

"You're a good man, Luka." Sophia's voice is soft.

I turn to look at her, her words unsettling me. It's an odd feeling, hearing her say that – I've never thought of myself as a "good" man. Merely a man doing what is necessary.

"What makes you think that?" I ask her, my voice gruff. The question isn't rhetorical. I genuinely want to know. How can this woman, who's seen the darkness that clings to my soul, still see any good in me?

"You are. Just look at the way Yulia looks at you."

My gaze flicks to Yulia, who's now kneeling at our mother's grave, arranging the flowers at the foot of the stone.

"Good man?" I shake my head. "You've got the wrong man, krasotka." I jerk my thumb at my chest. "No," I say, my voice low, the echo of my past looming in every syllable. "I'm a monster in man's clothing." I splay my fingers and look down at my palms. "See these hands? They're stained with more sins than you can imagine."

I look at Yulia again, innocence personified, too sweet for my world.

"I'm no hero, Sophia. Just a man trying to protect what's left of his family. Nothing more." My voice is bitter, raw with truth. The idea of redemption lingers. And it terrifies the hell out of me.

"Good or not," she retorts, "I see what I see. And to me, you are being a good brother."

Fuck. This woman. Her words hit me in my chest like a damn bullet.

Not ready to continue this conversation, I find myself sinking to my knees before the grand tombstone, pulling at the stubborn weeds desecrating my father's resting place.

"Today," I grit out, "is Papa's fourth death anniversary." The words feel like a confession, a raw, bleeding part of my soul laid bare. I risk a glance at Sophia, more disturbed by her quiet understanding than any of the heated moments we've shared before now.

Blyat!

This woman, with her unwavering gaze and her soft heart, will be the death of me.

Her hand finds my shoulder, a light touch that sends waves of warmth flooding through me. I don't flinch. I don't pull away. Instead, I find myself leaning into the contact.

This is so fucking dangerous.

"If only you knew…" My voice trails off, bitterness lining every word. "If only you knew what I want to do to Aleks."

The moment his name slips from my lips, her hand spasms as if struck by a shock. "Aleks?" she echoes. "Who-who is he?"

A bitter chuckle slips from my lips. "Ah, Aleks. My beloved uncle. My mother's blood." Each word I spit out is drenched in hate. "The fucker who blasted a bullet into my father's skull four years ago."