My hand drops to my side the moment I open the door.
A body lies on the stretcher, covered by a white sheet. The smell of sickeningly burned flesh clogs my nostrils, but that’s not the reason I find it hard to breathe.
It’s the black skeleton-like hand peeking from beneath the sheet. I approach it slowly, my movements stiff and unnatural.
I take the roasted hand in my shaky one. Ash and burned flesh smudge my skin, but the only thing I’m focused on is the ring burned into the second to last finger.
I rub the top of it, and my heart fucking falls to my knees when the green is exposed.
No.
I remove it with some of the flesh, and Kirill’s stares me right in the face.
Fucking no.
I frantically check her other wrist, and my hand shakes uncontrollably when I find the bracelet I gave her for her last birthday. I struggle to separate it from the burnt skin, but when I see Sasha, a scream builds at the back of my throat.
Fuck no.
I don’t know how I remain standing as I remove the cover to reveal her face.
Or what used to be a face.
There’s a black skeleton instead. Some flesh has melted off the bone, leaving a gory mess where her eyes, nose, and lips are supposed to be. Her hair is gone, and so are any other features I could identify her with.
I stand there for a long moment, studying every burn, every cut, every disfigured feature.
Maybe if I stare hard enough, this scene will disappear.
“Boss…”
My head slowly tilts in Viktor’s direction. He looks at the burned body with a furrowed brow and pursed lips. It’s the most seriously affected I’ve seen him since we lost Rulan and his brigade in that last Spetsnaz mission.
“Wipe that fucking look off your face, Viktor. This isn’t Sasha.” I don’t know how the fuck I sound calm when I’m on the verge of losing my fucking mind.
The ring and bracelet burn in my fingers as if they’re still on fire.
“I’m sorry, Kirill.”
“What the fuck are you apologizing for? This isn’t my fucking wife. Find her.”
He doesn’t move, not even an inch.
“What are you waiting for? I told you to fucking find her.”
“You already did, Kirill.”
I grip him by the collar and haul him against me to peer down his goddamn nonexistent soul. “Don’t fuck with me, Viktor. I told you this isn’t her, so your job is to nod your fucking head and go find her.”
He clasps my hand, and instead of removing it, he squeezes. “My job is to tell you hard truths, and the current one is that we were too late. Lipovsky died in the aftermath of the bombing. I understand that you don’t want to accept that—”
His words are cut off when I slam my fist in his face. He staggers back, barely catching himself before he falls.
“Shut the fuck up. She didn’t die.”
He says nothing, but his gaze falls on the ring and bracelet I’m still clenching in my hand. He doesn’t have to speak for me to hear “You’re holding the evidence.”
I lift my head and stare at the cloudy sky. It’s gray, grim, and absolutely depressing, but it doesn’t compare to the dark abyss that’s currently replaced my heart.
The world has always been monotone to me—either black or gray. The only person who introduced me to a fucking rainbow of colors has now turned black.
She’s now being ripped out of my heart and leaving a bottomless pit in her wake.
Everything has turned to ashes. All I can do is glare at the sky, feel moisture filling my eyes, and let out a raw scream.
I was ready to believe that Sasha wasn’t dead.
Anyone could’ve put that bracelet and ring on the corpse to make me think it was my Sasha.
But then, the DNA test came out as a match, and now, I’m on edge, only a few moments away from pushing myself over.
But I can’t join her yet.
It’s been a week since I saw her skeleton. They had to search for her legs since they were scattered apart.
A week in which I haven’t seen a wink of sleep, I’ve stumbled in and out of a drunken haze, and I’ve nearly started killing anyone I’ve seen walking down the street.
If the only light in my life was taken away, how dare they keep theirs?
If my world is flipped upside down, why the fuck is everyone else living as if nothing happened?
A week of Karina crying nonstop and trying to console me, only for me to shut the door in her face. Konstantin tried, too, but he was also given the cold shoulder.
Not even Anna has been allowed to touch me.
Apparently, Viktor told the family about Sasha’s identity so they know she’s a woman and my wife.
Was. Fuck. I still can’t believe she became a was.
Still, I didn’t accept anyone’s condolences. I don’t need fucking emotions. I murdered them a long time ago, and they’re not coming back.
All this dizziness, disorientation, and pure fucking mania is a translation of my need for revenge.
We lost communication with Maksim after that text. Viktor sent men to look for him to no avail.
And with that, we lost our only lead to the Ivanovs.
As in, the founders of the Belsky Organization. I didn’t make the connection at first, but after Sasha left for the cottage, Viktor revealed that, according to the KGB intelligence, the family behind the Belsky Organization is called Ivanov.
They’re some form of aristocrats who, apparently, have always had deals with the governments in Russia and went as far as putting them in power. Until the current ruler of the Kremlin, who’s been out to annihilate them ever since he got into office.
I doubted Sasha knew any of that. Her sole purpose seemed to be revenge for her family’s murder.
However, no matter which angle I look at the tale from, there are still too many plot holes. One, I haven’t dealt with any Ivanovs in my lifetime. The only incident involving them that comes to mind is when Konstantin was kidnapped and tortured by someone who I presume was one of them.
Their whole existence is still blurry.
Everything is.
Even Yuri disappeared off the face of the fucking earth. Which makes me paranoid as fuck.
Losing not only Sasha but also Maksim and Yuri is like walking around with gaping wounds.
It’s been three days since I buried her in the family cemetery and ordered a tombstone with Aleksandra Morozova engraved on it.
It’s been two days since we started searching for leads for whoever could’ve ordered that hit on her.
It’s been one day since we located the most probable suspects—the Albanians.
I pull out my gun and stare at an old building on the outskirts of an ancient industrialized area in Boston.
The sun sets in the distance, casting an orange hue that will turn into red with the blood of those fuckers.
“We’re ready,” Viktor says from beside me.
Dark circles surround his eyes from how much I’ve overworked him this week. He’s barely slept, and when he has, I’ve called him to my office to dig into any information I’ve gathered.
He doesn’t complain, but he does bitch about how I need some rest and that I might drop dead.
Might as well.
I haven’t been in my room since I saw that body. Every corner is full of her presence, natural scent, and soft smiles.
It’s full of her care, her countless attempts to put me to sleep. It’s full of her tangible concern about my well-being and safety.