It’s oddly satisfactory.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” I roar at her. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
Aracelia looks up at me with wide eyes as I stand up from the table.
“It’s time you leave. Now.”
The mutt whimpers in the corner. Aracelia remains frozen in place for a moment as if contemplating something.
And then she rises.
“Okay,” she agrees. “I’ll go.”
She heads for the door while the mutt watches as though his best friend is walking out on him, but he makes no move to follow her.
At the threshold, Aracelia turns around and glances at me.
“You can scare everyone away, Artem,” she tells me. “But at the end of the day, you’ll be alone. And trust me: no one—no one—can live alone forever. Certainly no one can fight alone.”
With that bullshit parting speech, she walks out, keeping her back straight and proud.
I close my eyes and sink down into my seat once more when she’s gone.
Fuck.
I hate to admit it, but the woman got to me. Her words keep rolling around in my head, getting harder and harder to ignore.
No one can live alone.
No one can fight alone.
I think about the resources I have available to fight Budimir. My forces are limited at best, and as determined as I am, I know I can’t take Budimir and his forces like that.
I have been up in these mountains for months now. It was only ever meant to be a temporary respite, and yet it has burgeoned into a far longer stint than I ever predicted.
Yes, I had to wait for my wounds to heal, but I’ve been healed for at least two months now.
I’ve been training my body hard, trying to train my mind as well.
But at what point had it gone from preparation to procrastination?
I can’t hide out in these mountains anymore.
I have to act. I have to move.
I have to take control of the Bratva once more.
And in order to do that, I need to destroy them first.
But Aracelia was right about one thing: I cannot do that alone.
I leave my bowl of pozole to cool as I grab a handgun and storm out of the cabin. The mutt follows close behind me.
For once, I don’t mind the company.
I make a beeline straight for Cillian’s memorial. The path is familiar now and well-marked by my daily visits.
I sink to my knees in the dirt and stare at the pyramid of flat white stones, with that pitiful cross of sticks on top.