Forever stitching wounds. Staunching blood flow and plugging bullet holes. Living in fear, night in and night out, for as long as we both manage to survive.
Artem told you he was done with it all. That he was choosing his family over the Bratva.
Even as I think that, though, I don’t believe it. No matter how hard to hope, I know it isn’t true.
He was lying to me. I knew it then—deep down, at least, even if I was afraid to say it out loud—and I know it now.
I just wasn’t ready to face the truth.
He’ll never walk away from his birthright.
My husband was not made for a quiet life on a remote mountain.
He was not made for the life I craved.
I’m parched and weary and I can feel dehydration set its claws into my starving body, but I can’t bring myself to get up.
For right now, this cool bathroom floor is comfort in a cruel world. I plan on staying here, at least until I feel like I can stand without falling right back down.
I’m so drained, emotionally and physically, that death feels like it would be a relief.
Cesar, is this what you felt at the end?
Did you kill Artem’s wife because you knew it was the easiest way to commit suicide?
Did you hate this life as much as I do?