Bound by the Blood

Cracks

POV: Sasha

---

Three weeks.

That's how long Dmitri gave me. Three weeks to deliver something useful – a weakness, a secret, a way to bring the Matteo empire down. Three weeks before he sent someone else. Someone who wouldn't hesitate.

I sat in my empty apartment, Marco's taste still on my lips, and stared at my phone.

Progress?

I typed: I'm close. I need more time.

Dmitri's response came immediately: You have two weeks now.

He was speeding up the clock. He knew. Not the details – but he knew something was wrong. He'd always been able to read me, even from thousands of miles away.

I threw the phone across the room. It hit the wall, cracked the screen, fell to the floor.

I didn't pick it up.

---

The gym was empty when I got there.

I needed to hit something. Needed to feel something other than this suffocating guilt. I wrapped my hands, stepped into the ring, and started pounding the heavy bag.

One two. One two. Harder. Faster.

I imagined Dmitri's face. My father's face. Marco's face – the way he'd look when he found out the truth.

The bag swung back, hit me in the chest, knocked me off balance.

I fell to my knees and stayed there, breathing hard, not moving.

"What are you doing to me?" I whispered.

No one answered.

---

My phone buzzed again. I'd retrieved it from the floor, cracked screen and all.

Not Dmitri this time.

Marco

Dinner tonight?

I stared at the message. Two simple words. He made it sound so easy. So normal.

I should say no. I should disappear, change my name, run before I did something unforgivable.

Where?

My place. I'll cook.

You cook?

I burn water. But I'll try.

I smiled despite myself. Then I wanted to cry.

What time?

Eight.

I'll be there.

I put down the phone and pressed my palms to my eyes.

Two weeks.

I had two weeks to figure out how to save him and destroy myself.

---

I got to his apartment at 7:55.

He opened the door in a black sweater, sleeves pushed up, something that smelled like garlic burning on the stove behind him.

"You're early," he said.

"You're burning dinner."

"I'm creating ambiance."

I stepped inside, kicked off my shoes, followed him to the kitchen. The smoke alarm was beeping. He swore, climbed on a chair, waved a dish towel at it until it stopped.

"You're a menace," I said.

"You're still here."

"Someone has to make sure you don't burn the building down."

He jumped down from the chair, landed close to me. Close enough to touch.

"Stay," he said quietly. "Even if the building burns. Stay."

I looked at him – at this man who had no idea who I really was, who was offering me something I didn't deserve.

"I'm here," I whispered. "I'm not going anywhere."

He kissed me. Soft at first, then deeper. His hands in my hair, my back against the counter, the forgotten dinner burning behind us.

"The food," I said against his lips.

"Let it burn."

He lifted me onto the counter, stepped between my knees, and kissed me again.

I let myself forget.

Just for a little while.

---

Later – after we'd ordered pizza, after we'd eaten it on his couch, after we'd made love again – I lay in his arms and listened to his heartbeat.

"I want to tell you something," he said.

"What?"

"About my family. The night they died."

I went still. "You don't have to—"

"I want to." He shifted, pulled me closer. "I was sixteen. I'd been out with friends – stupid, teenage stuff. I came home late. The house was dark. I thought they were asleep."

He stopped. Swallowed.

"I went inside. The door was unlocked. That should have been my first warning. My father never left the door unlocked."

I didn't speak. Just held him.

"I found them in the living room. My mother. My father. My sister." His voice was flat, distant, like he was reciting someone else's memory. "They'd been shot. Execution style. On their knees."

"Marco—"

"Lena was still alive. Just barely. She looked at me. She tried to say something. And I couldn't—" His voice broke. "I couldn't save her. I just stood there. I just stood there while she died."

I turned in his arms, faced him, took his face in my hands.

"You were a child," I said. "You were a child, and they were monsters. You're not responsible for what monsters do."

"That's what you said before."

"Because it's true."

He looked at me – really looked. "How do you know?"

"Because I've done things I can't take back. Things that would make you hate me if you knew." I held his eyes. "But I'm still here. I'm still trying. And you're still here, Marco. You survived. That's not nothing."

He was quiet for a long moment. Then he pulled me close, buried his face in my hair, and held on.

I held on too.

And I didn't tell him the truth.

Not yet.