Cillian
Thirty-Six Hours Earlier—Los Angeles, California
Artem shakes his head, trying to wrap his head around the story I’ve just told him.
I’ve already been through it twice, but I know he needs more time to absorb it all.
It’s not always easy to process your best friend returning from the dead.
“You were fucking alive,” he marvels for the dozenth time. “The whole damn time, you were alive.”
I take a swig of my half-empty drink and nod. “Yup. I watched Esme drag your fat ass into that vehicle,” I explain. “I made my peace with death. But apparently, life wasn’t done with me yet.”
“Chertovski smeshno,” Artem mutters in Russian, reaching for his own beer.
Fucking ridiculous.
We’ve been cocooned in this room for the past few hours now. And despite the amount of alcohol we’ve consumed, neither one of us is close to being drunk.
The stories we’re telling are pretty sobering, to be fair.
“Pretty exciting, huh?” I say, flashing him a smile. “Bet you’re jealous.”
“Of what, exactly?”
“The adventures I’ve been on.”
Artem narrows his dark eyes at me. “Are you referring to playing the part of farm boy for the better part of a year?” he asks.
“Well, the way I told it was better, but sure, we can go with your version.”
“Are you trying to insinuate that it was more exciting than me taking back the Bratva from my psychotic uncle?” His smile is twitching at the corner of his lips.
“And probably more dangerous, too,” I add with a serious nod. “Have you ever tried milking a grumpy cow? Those bitches get feisty.”
Artem guffaws with laughter. He’d never say it out loud, but he’s glad I’m back.
Which only makes it harder to tell him what I’ve put off telling him for the last few hours.
“Always knew you’d do it,” I say, letting sentimentality creep in a little. “The Bratva was only ever meant to yours.”
Artem shrugs. “I guess I knew I could do it, too,” he says. “Just always assumed you’d be next to me when I did.”
“Me, too,” I admit. “But you didn’t need me.”
“Not true.”
I cock my head to the side and look at him pointedly. “Let’s not pretend.”
Artem smirks. “I should have figured you’d show up right when shit’s settled and the danger’s passed.”
“You know me,” I laugh. “I always had great timing.”
Artem shakes his head. I can still see the disbelief in his eyes when he looks at me. “Cillian fucking O’Sullivan,” he breathes. “Back from the dead.”
I smile. It takes some effort to keep my expression casual.
“So… I hear Kian’s still in town?”