Chapter 12 - Irina

The floor is cold. Very cold, and there's blood everywhere. My blood. My parents' blood. I don't know which it is. I can't move. My arms won't work; my legs feel like they don't exist. Everything hurts, but it's distant, like I'm not really in my body anymore.

The house is too quiet. No voices, no footsteps, nothing. It's the kind of quiet that feels suffocating, like the world has just stopped and left me behind.

I try to lift my head, but the room spins, and I have to drop it back down. My cheek hits the floor again.

My parents are lying there, so still. The sunlight that pours through the window casts long shadows over their bodies, making them seem so much smaller than they were, even more . . . gone.

Footsteps echo in the house, and each one makes the floor vibrate beneath me. I want to scream, to run, but nothing happens. I'm frozen, trapped in my own body.

The door creaks open, and a figure steps inside. He moves toward me; his face is blurry. He kneels beside me and grabs me, lifting me up like I'm nothing more than a ragdoll.

"Please, let me go!"

He doesn't say anything. He just keeps walking, carrying me through the door. I twist in his arms, trying to fight him off, but I'm too weak. All I can do is watch as my house, my parents, and everything I've ever known fade away behind me.

The cold is the first thing I notice when I wake up. It's all I've been noticing lately because it keeps settling deep in my bones, and it makes every breath I take feel heavy. I don't know where I am, but the smell of mold and dust tells me it's far from home. Home . . .. My stomach twists at the thought that I don't have a home anymore.

The room is a small, dark space with peeling walls and a flickering lightbulb that barely holds on. It's so quiet.

I try to sit up, but the moment I move, my head spins, and my stomach lurches.

I start screaming.

The door opens, and a man limps into the room. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a scar cutting across his face.

Is he going to kill me?

I scramble back, my heart pounding in my chest.

"Stop screaming. I'm not going to hurt you."

I don't believe him. Why should I? I don't know him. I don't know where I am. My parents are dead. Everything is gone, and this man thinks he can just tell me to stop?

"Who are you?" I spit out. "If you're here to kill me, do it."

He takes a step closer, but I press harder against the wall. I don't care if it's cold. I don't care if it hurts. I just don't want to be here.

"Irina, I'm not going to hurt you."

"How do you know my name? Stop coming toward me."

"I was your father's partner." He stops just a few feet away. "We served together in the military for 20 years."

I shake my head. "No. No, you weren't." The words feel thick in my throat. I can barely think straight, and the pounding in my head isn't helping. "You're lying."

"I'm not," he says. "He was one of the only people I could trust. He was my best friend."

I don't want to hear this. I don't want to know. "Why should I believe you? How am I supposed to trust anything you say?"

He reaches into his pocket, and I tense, ready to scream again and fight if I must. But all he pulls out is a photograph. He steps closer and holds it out for me to see. I don't want to look, but my eyes betray me.

It's my dad.

In the photo, he looks younger, healthier, and he is standing next to this man. They are both in military uniforms, and they're smiling.

Tears gather in my eyes.

I'll never see my dad smile again.

"We were trainees together. Your dad was always taking care of everyone. He looked out for me, and I looked up to him as an older brother.

"I left the military after I got severely injured, and when I thought I had nothing, no hope, no future, your dad made sure to always remind me that life was still worth living."

I don't want to hear about my dad. Not from him. Not from anyone. My dad is gone, and nothing this man says will change that.

I wipe my eyes, hating how easily the tears fall. "So what? You were friends? That doesn't mean I should trust you. It doesn't mean anything."

He lowers the photo. "I'm not asking you to trust me. Not yet. I'm just telling you the truth."

I laugh bitterly, though it's more of a broken sound. "The truth? What's that supposed to help me with?"

"I know you've lost everything—" he starts, but I cut him off.

"You don't know anything about me!" I snap. "You don't know what I've been through, what I saw. My parents are dead. Do you get that? They're dead, and there's nothing anyone can do to fix it."

His face softens. "You're right. I don't know everything. But I do know what it feels like to lose the people you love. Sergei took everything from me, too."

I pause. "What?"

He takes a step back, leaning against the wall as if the weight of his own words is too much. "Sergei didn't just go after your dad. He went after all of us. There were three of us working on the case. I was away for a while working undercover, and when I returned, my . . . my wife . . . my son . . .." His voice cracks. "I couldn't save them."

I want to say something, to tell him that I'm sorry, but the words get stuck in my throat. I don't know how to feel.

"We thought we could stop Sergei. I thought if I just pushed hard enough, I could end it. But I was wrong. I couldn't save them. And I couldn't save your father or Benjamin."

"So . . . what now? You think you can save me?"

He looks up. "No. I don't think I can save anyone. But I can help you get through this. I can make sure you don't have to go through it alone."

I shake my head, pressing my back harder against the wall. "I don't need your help. I just . . . I just want my parents back."

His face crumples, and for a moment, he looks like he's going to say something. But then he stops, his mouth pressing into a thin line. "I know."

The silence stretches between us. I don't know what to say, and for the first time, I think he doesn't either.

Finally, he speaks again. "I promised your father I would protect you. That's why I'm here."

"He's gone. What does that promise even matter now?"

"It matters because I'm still here," he says. "And I'm going to keep that promise. Whether you believe me or not."

***

Alexei is flipping through the files, and his face hardens more with each page he turns. I haven't touched the pile in front of me. Not yet. I know what's in them. I know it's going to be bad. Worse than bad.

But when he finally slides a thick stack my way, I pull it toward me. The papers are worn, some creased like they've been passed from hand to hand too many times. There are pictures of girls, boys, some not much older than 7 or 8. Their faces are blurred in places, but you can still see the fear in their eyes. They look haunted.

"They're kids," Alexei says softly. "Fucking kids."

I don't respond. I flip through the next few pages, and there are more details—contracts, payments, distribution routes.

God, I don't want to see this.

"This is insane," Alexei mutters, running a hand over his face. "How can people—"

He stops. He doesn't need to finish that sentence. We both know exactly how far people can go.

"We need to stop this . . .. We cut it off from the head," he says. "If we can take down the Broker, the whole thing crumbles."

I shake my head, shoving the papers back across the table. "I'm not interested in taking down a mafia operation, Alexei."

"But you're okay with letting what happened to you happen to someone else again? You're okay with these kids ending up in a place like this?"

No, I'm not okay with it.

The words freeze in my throat. I feel them clawing at me, but I can't get them out. His accusation cuts deeper than I expected, reopening wounds I thought I had buried. I want to shout at him, tell him to stop, but the words won't come.

"That's not fair," I say, my voice shaky, weak. "This isn't about me."

"Isn't it?" He stands up, slamming his fist on the table. "It's exactly about you! You, of all people, know what this does to someone. What Sergei did to your family, he's doing to hundreds of others! Are you really going to sit there and let him keep going?"

"I'm not the fucking savior of the world!" I shout back, standing up to meet him. "I'm not my father, Alexei. I don't do this shit. I never wanted to. And I'm sure as hell not going to get killed because you think we can take down a whole operation by ourselves!"

"You think I don't get it?" he yells, his face flushed with anger. "You think I don't understand what's at stake? I know damn well we could die, but you know what? I'd rather go down trying to stop this than sit around and pretend it's not happening!"

"I'm not pretending it's not happening!" My chest heaves. I'm just pretending it doesn't affect me. "But I'm not going to risk everything for some fucking fantasy where we save the world. People like Sergei . . . you don't just cut off the head and watch it all fall apart. Another one grows in its place. That's how this shit works."

"You don't know that. You don't know unless you try."

I don't have to know. I've seen it. I've lived it.

I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood. "I watched my father die because he thought he could be a hero. He wanted to save people, and look where it got him and the rest of us."

The words are out before I can stop them, my voice breaking as the memories flood back.

I'm not that strong. I'm not him.

"He spent his whole life chasing Sergei, and what did it get him? A bullet in the head. And now you want me to follow in his footsteps? You want me to throw my life away, too?"

His jaw clenches. "I want you to care. I want you to see that we may have a chance to make a difference."

"A difference?" I laugh, but it's hollow, cold. "You think we're going to stop all of this? With what? A couple of guns and a plan? You're fucking delusional, Alexei. This doesn't end. Ever."

He steps closer, his face inches from mine now. "You're afraid."

I flinch.

Am I?

"I'm not afraid."

"Bullshit." He's right in front of me now. "You're scared shitless, and that's why you're backing out. Because if you admit we can do something, you'll have to face the fact that maybe, just maybe, you're not as broken as you think you are."

"Fuck you," I snap, shoving him away. "You don't know anything about me."

He grabs my wrist, holding me in place. "I know more than you think."

Don't make me face this.

I try to pull away, but his grip tightens. "Let go."

"Not until you stop running."

"I'm not running."

"Yes, you are." His voice softens, but the intensity in his eyes remains. "You've been running since the day your parents died. You built these walls, Irina. You think they're keeping you safe, but all they're doing is trapping you inside."

I yank my arm free, my hands trembling now. "I'm not running. I'm surviving. There's a difference."

"Surviving?" He shakes his head slowly. "This isn't surviving. This is hiding. You're hiding from everything because you're too fucking scared to face it."

Scared?

The word feels like a punch to the gut, but I can't deny it. The fear that gnaws at me every time I think about Sergei, about what happened to my family, threatens to suffocate me.

I can't go through that again. I can't.

I take a step back, my throat tightening as I struggle to hold onto the walls I've built. "You don't get it."

"Then help me get it," he says, softer now. "Tell me why you're so afraid of trying."

Because I'm not strong enough. Because I can't lose again.

"I can't do it," I whisper, my voice cracking. "I can't go through that again."

Alexei's face softens, and he takes a step toward me. "Irina . . .."

"I lost everything," I say, the words barely above a whisper. "Everything. And I can't . . . I don't want to be a hero, Alexei. I just want to survive."

For a moment, the room is silent, the weight of my admission hanging between us like a thread.

He pulls me into his arms, holding me tight. "You are surviving. And you're stronger than you think."

The tears come in full force now, and I bury my face in his chest, sobbing uncontrollably.

Maybe I am afraid. Maybe I've been afraid all along.

He strokes my hair gently, his voice soft and steady. "It's okay," he murmurs. "It's okay."

But it's not. It hasn't been okay for a long time.

Will it ever be? Or am I always going to be stuck in this place, trying to survive but never really living?