Bound by the Blood

WHISKEY AND LIES

POV: Marco

---

I got to Carmine's at 6:45.

Fifteen minutes early. I was never early. I didn't wait for anyone. But tonight, I'd been standing outside for ten minutes before I realized I was nervous.

Ridiculous. I'd faced down men with guns, survived shootings, ordered deaths without flinching. And here I was, nervous about having dinner with a woman who was clearly lying to me.

I went inside anyway.

The restaurant was small, intimate – red leather booths, soft lighting, the smell of garlic and wine. I chose a table in the back, facing the door. Old habits.

She walked in at 7:02.

No hood this time. Her dark blonde hair was loose, falling past her shoulders. She wore a simple black dress – elegant but not trying too hard. Her eyes found mine immediately, like she knew exactly where I'd be.

She crossed to the table, sat across from me.

"You're early," she said.

"You're late."

"I'm never late."

"You're two minutes late."

She almost smiled. "You noticed."

"I notice everything."

We stared at each other for a moment. The waiter came, took our drink orders. She asked for whiskey. Not wine, not something soft. Whiskey.

I ordered the same.

"You fight well," I said.

"I've had practice."

"Where did you learn?"

"Places you don't want to know about."

She wasn't wrong. I'd seen the way she moved – the precision, the economy of motion. She'd been trained. Not in a gym. By someone who taught her to kill.

"Your husband," I said. "What was his name?"

Her expression didn't change. "Does it matter?"

"Humor me."

She was quiet for a moment. "Alexei. He was a good man. Kind. Gentle. Nothing like this world."

"What happened to him?"

"Dmitri Volkov's men happened." Her voice was flat, controlled. "They wanted information about Viktor's operation. He didn't have any. They killed him anyway."

I watched her face for tells – a flicker, a flinch, anything that suggested she was lying. I found nothing.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Are you?"

"I lost my family too. The Russians. Viktor's men." I held her eyes. "Eighteen years ago. I was sixteen."

She didn't look away. "I know."

"Everyone knows. It's not a secret."

"No." She picked up her whiskey, took a slow sip. "But you don't talk about it. Not really. You bury it. You pretend it doesn't hurt anymore."

"How do you know what I do?"

"Because I do the same thing."

The waiter came with our food. We ate in silence for a few minutes – not uncomfortable, but charged. Like we were both waiting for something.

"Why are you really here, Marco?"

"I told you. I want to know who you are."

"You don't even know my last name."

"So tell me."

She set down her fork. "Volkov. Sasha Volkov."

Volkov. Russian. Wolf.

"Related to Dmitri?"

"My uncle." Her voice was steady. "Which you already knew, or you wouldn't be sitting here."

I didn't deny it. "Why are you asking questions about Viktor's operation if your uncle is running it now?"

"Because he's the one who killed my husband." She leaned forward. "Dmitri wanted Viktor's empire. He used me to get close to Viktor. When Viktor died, Dmitri took over. And the people who helped him – they're still out there."

"You want revenge."

"I want justice."

"The same thing, in this world."

She shook her head. "No. Justice is making sure no one else gets hurt. Revenge is making sure the people who hurt you bleed first." She held my eyes. "I want justice."

I wanted to believe her. Every instinct told me she was hiding something – but not this. The pain in her voice was real. The rage behind her eyes was real.

"Your brother," I said. "The man from the cafe."

Her jaw tightened. "What about him?"

"He's in trouble. Gambling debts. Dmitri's people are using him to get to you."

"I know."

"Why haven't you run?"

"Where would I go?" She laughed, but it was bitter. "Dmitri has eyes everywhere. And my brother – he's all I have left. I can't leave him."

"So you stay. You fight. You ask questions that get you noticed."

"I do what I have to do."

We finished dinner. The waiter cleared the plates. Neither of us moved to leave.

"Your husband," I said. "Alexei. Did you love him?"

She was quiet for a long moment. "I wanted to. He was a good man. He deserved to be loved." She looked at me. "But I don't think I know how. Not anymore."

I understood that. More than I wanted to admit.

"Walk with me," I said.

"It's late."

"I'll walk you home."

She studied me for a moment. Then she stood, pulled on her coat, and walked out the door.

I followed.

---

The streets were quiet, the city settling into its night rhythm. We walked side by side, not touching, not talking. Just… being.

"Your family," she said eventually. "What were they like?"

"Does it matter? They're gone."

"It matters to you. I can see it. In the way you carry yourself. The way you keep everyone at a distance." She glanced at me. "You're still mourning them."

"I'm not mourning. I'm surviving."

"Same thing."

I stopped walking. She stopped too, turned to face me.

"My mother used to sing," I said. "Every morning, while she made breakfast. Off-key, terrible, but she didn't care. My father would pretend to be annoyed, but I saw him smile." I looked at the sky, at the few stars visible through the city lights. "My sister was seven when they died. She wanted to be a doctor. She used to practice on her dolls."

"What was her name?"

"Lena."

"Lena," Sasha repeated softly. "That's beautiful."

"She was beautiful." My voice was rough. "They all were. And then they were gone. And I couldn't –" I stopped, clenched my jaw. "I couldn't save them."

"You were sixteen."

"It doesn't matter. I should have been faster. Stronger. I should have –"

"You were a child, Marco." She stepped closer. "You were a child, and they were monsters. You're not responsible for what monsters do."

I looked at her – at this woman I barely knew, who was somehow seeing past every wall I'd ever built.

"Why do you care?"

"Because I know what it's like to carry guilt for things you couldn't control." Her eyes were bright, wet. "I know what it's like to wonder if you could have done something different. If you could have saved someone."

"Did you?"

"Every day."

We stood there in the dark, two broken people who'd spent years pretending we weren't.

"Come home with me," I said.

She didn't ask what I meant. Didn't pretend to misunderstand.

"Okay," she whispered.

I took her hand.

She didn't pull away.