Vince takes Arkady to a spare room. I sit in the empty, silent office and stare at the gun on the desk. My hands tremble with aftershocks of adrenaline.
Eventually, Vince slips back in. I look up at him.
“Your own father,” I say. “Your own f*****g father would murder his son.”
Vince’s eyes meet mine from across the room. “And you’re surprised?”
“I shouldn’t be. Nothing in this goddamn life should surprise me anymore.”
I take a step forward, then another, until there’s barely space between us. His pulse throbs visibly in his neck—the only sign that he’s affected by nearly dying tonight.
I reach up, my fingertips hovering just above the spot where Arkady’s gun pressed against his skin. “I hate that I still care,” I confess. “I hate that watching you almost die just now felt like my own
