“Okay.” I brush the hair off his forehead with my free hand. I owe him my life. No telling what would have happened if he hadn’t shown up. That angry old Russian man wasn’t offering to slice me a piece of pizza with that monster of a knife. If Tomas hadn’t come in when he did, there’s no telling how much longer I had left to live. “You saved me.”
He breathes out slow, quiet, steady. “Had to. I love you.” His hand goes limp, and his breathing levels out. He’s asleep just like that, which is hardly fair since I didn’t get to say it back to him.
I sit with him the rest of the night. And the next day. The next, too. A rotation of different members of his Bratva show up at random intervals so that I’m never alone. I call my folks and Leila, but the man I want to talk to, the one I want to be
