I try and read her expression, but there’s nothing there. I wonder if she learned her poker face from her husband—or if it was actually the other way around.
“You have an answer for me, don’t you?” I ask.
“I do.”
“And I’m not going to like it.”
She nods. She’s not apologetic or regretful. Nor is she spiteful.
Just matter-of-fact. Straightforward. Honest.
“We won’t be helping you, Artem. Not with money or with men. It’s not our place to concern ourselves with the matters of the Bratva.” She fixes me with a level gaze. “This is your fight, not ours.”
I look her in the eye and I know instinctively that nothing I can say will make a difference.
I nod. “Very well.”
I expect her to get up and leave. But she stays seated. Cranes her neck around to survey the view I admired last night.
“I keep thinking of him as a child,” she muses. “All those little memories I’ve suppressed for so long. He was such a beautiful child. Everything was funny to him.”
“That never changed.”
“I’m glad,” she says. “I was always so worried about him… out in L.A., on his own.”
“He wasn’t on his own,” I correct. “He had me. We had each other.”
She smiles, a sad smile that makes her powder blue eyes swim for a moment. “That helps to know,” she says. Her eyes scanning over me like she’s searching for clues. What kind of man was with her son at the end, perhaps. “You’re married.”
I had thought about removing my ring months ago after Esme had left, but I never followed through. Apparently, my hurt pride wasn’t strong enough to withstand the desire to keep a small part of Esme with me, no matter how hollow the gesture was.
“Yes.”
“Do you love her?”
I look at her, immediately uncomfortable with the conversation. The only person I had ever discussed this kind of shit with was Cillian.
Without him around, I just bury it deep.
“Love has no place in my life,” I answer.
She sighs with exasperation. “Why?” she demands. “Because the Bratva always comes first?”
“Yes.”
“Then you are a weak man.”
I look at her with amusement. “Excuse me?”
“Are you not strong enough to have both? To protect both? To balance both?” she asks. “Why is it always either-or with you men?”
“She wants me to give up the Bratva,” I say with a scowl. “It wasn’t my idea to choose. It was hers.”
“I see,” Sinead says. “And you chose your legacy.”
“It’s not a choice,” I snap. “It’s what I have to do. I have to avenge my father’s death. I have to avenge Cillian’s death.”
“Even if that’s not what he would have wanted you to do?”