xxxi | unload the clip

a/n: I have finished writing Potere and will be uploading the remaining chapters every Thursday (around the same time) until the book is complete. Thank you for being patient!!

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"Zoooom!" Rosalie's laugh is contagious as she outstretches her arms, the wind rushing past her face and through her hair. Her small legs are wrapped around Michael Luciano's neck, his large hands attached to her ankles, securing her to a first-class seat on-top of his shoulders.

Rosie has been on a real airplane before, but this one is her favorite.

She screeches as their journey takes them down the massive stairwell. In fright, she slaps both hands over Michael's eyes and shuts her own. The momentum of the airplane stopping midflight nearly throws her over his shoulder. His screeching surpasses the volume of her own.

"The plane can't see!"

She removes her hands and places them over her own eyes. "Sorry!"

They reach the bottom floor and swiftly, Michael kneels just long enough for Rosalie to stand on her own two feet. He rises to his own, slower than Rosie has ever seen him. That's been happening a lot lately. He doesn't think she notices. The grimaces after she accidentally runs into him. The way he uses both hands to rise from his seat. The hand on his knee as he pulls himself to his full height from the floor. He stays in bed longer. His bedtime stories are getting shorter.

Their time together, slowly transitioning from playful teasing and meaningless activity to talks about the future.

She latches onto his hand. "Don't leave me." It sounds like a random statement, but a thought Rosalie has every time she's with somebody she loves—abandonment is all she knows. Everyone always leaves.

But as quickly as she states it, she wishes she could take it back. She has asked Michael not to leave her time and time again, probably to the point of annoyance. He never sounds annoyed and prior to the gentle shift in his behavior, his response would be comforting. But recently, his response has been calculated, dry, and always the same.

"You are all you need."

He never looks at her when he says it. He never offers her any other explanation other than that. He once added that there would be a day when she understood, a day when she was older. She doesn't believe that day will ever come.

"Where are we going?"

"I want to teach you something," He says softly.

Their journey is short but leads them to the lowest level of the Luciano mansion, and into the gun range. It doesn't take long to set up the simulation. A low hum draws Rosalie's outlined target into position while Michael positions their protective ear equipment around their neck. He fights a laugh at the way her body tilts while holding the weapon.

Her form is what takes the longest, but Michael has never been worried that Rosalie could not grasp a topic he was instructing her on. She was one of the fastest learners he has ever met, and he's trained some of his best soldiers. He kneels at her side, gently repositioning her arms and her stance. He rests the side of his face against hers and he can hear a faint giggle escape her lips. The sound makes him smile.

He raises his hand and points to her target.

"Put a bullet through his head," Michael commands.

Rosalie smiles, the vibration of his words tickling her cheek.

He pulls the protective equipment over Rosalie's ears, but before he gives her the signal to shoot, he tilts the earmuff away once more. "All guns have some kind of recoil. You're small. It might hurt, but it won't hurt as much as someone hurting you."

Her voice is soft, even gentle. "What should I do?"

His response is confident. "Brace for kickback."

Rosalie nods and repeats her instructions, "Brace for kickback."

"One more thing," Michael leans toward her ear again, forgetting the most important instruction of them all. He whispers his instruction quietly, and when he finishes, she turns to him, confused. "You don't have a lot of experience with a gun. Until you do, if somebody is trying to hurt you, do it."

Rosalie nods and turns her attention to her target.

Her hands are still. Her breathing has slowed. Everything Michael taught her, she executes to perfection. He doesn't notice her hesitation, her brief pause to appreciate a moment she may never have again. His hand on her shoulder, something he would always do when the large, scary soldiers would storm by them. Something like protection.

She bumps her hip playfully into his chest and even through the earmuffs muffling her hearing, she hears Michael laugh.

Rosalie repositions herself and with Michael at her side, she pulls the trigger.

Her bullet whizzes through the air, but before it can strike her target, something shifts. Michael's hand is no longer on her shoulder. His face no longer pressed against hers, as they eye down her target, Nathaniel Rostov, together. His body no longer kneeling beside her. His protection, gone, as quickly as the warm, gentle breeze came and went. He's nothing. All Michael would ever be is a memory. One that would grow more distant, fade even more, every day.

Her bullet strikes her target, Nathaniel Rostov, directly between the eyes.

Her first shot kills the heir to the Rostov throne. Her second, third, fourth, and fifth shot just make sure he's dead. His body jerks with the entry of each additional bullet. Then he lies still, blood pooling from every hole the nine-year-old put in him.

She would have put a sixth in him, but her gun clicks. Empty.

The most noteworthy moments of my life have all had the same, time-slowing effect. Liam, looking back at his mother as he offers her his hand, one last time. Liam, leaning across the seats of our SUV and clicking my seatbelt, securing me safely. The sound of the violin orchestra, the feeling of his hands on my waist, spinning me around the wooden floors of the arena he rented out for my birthday. Federico rising to his feet in the dim parking garage, a smile on his face as Diavolo groans, trying to recover from a vicious hit.

There's so many more, and as Rosalie drops the weapon to her feet, I fear this will count as another.

What was the last thing he taught you, cutie?

"Brace for kickback," She tells Nathaniel once more. Rosalie's eyes fill with tears, and one manages to sneak its way out of it as her voice cracks, "Brace for kickback, and unload the clip.

Chaos ensues. Slow, muted, chaos. Federico, Veleno, and Crixus fire off three bullets simultaneously, striking the stunned Russian soldiers and freeing our own. There's shouting. Yelling. Orders being thrown around. I'm shoved to my left and to my right as soldiers' storm through the doors behind us, strategically splitting up and marching down the different avenues of our home, clearing it of any more enemies. Vincenzo reaches Rosalie, wipes the tear from her cheek, and pulls her into an embrace. She starts to cry, and hard.

Federico reaches Carmen and helps her to her feet. He throws an arm around her shoulder, his lips moving as he tells her something. She shakes her head, wrapping an arm around his abdomen. Her lips are easy to read, "You don't miss." He pats the holster on his hip and motions to his gun, Charmaine. Carmen laughs and draws his face down to hers, planting the faintest kiss on his cheek. Federico smiles, then starts wiping his cheek, attempting to rid it of the lipstick stain he knows she left. All Carmen can do is burst out in laughter.

Veleno offers Savaughna a hand. They exchange a short conversation and a brief hug. She shakes her head, turns to him, and mutters something along the lines of, "I miss modeling."

Crixus is the only one who remains in place, stuck in the same spot he fired the bullet from, saving Dominic's life. The room is so busy, individuals rushing from one end of the room to another that I can't tell if Crixus and Dominic ever make eye contact.

The boy drops the gun at his feet and hurries away without a word.

Liam was at my side the entire time. The feeling of his fingers digging into my side is as prominent now as it was then, even an hour later, as I stand underneath the showerhead. Time is suddenly an illusion, and I have no idea how long I've been standing underneath scolding hot water, watching it mix with blood and tears, then run down the drain.

They aren't sad tears. I don't regret a bullet I put in anybody tonight, even my own mother. But more-so, tears from overthinking our interaction. Tears from my lack of hesitation pulling the trigger, despite knowing I could die as well. Knowing I would die as well.

Tears due to my hesitation and tears from realizing how much I love them all. Everyone, all the way down the lowest ranked soldiers' whose names I don't even know. Tears from realizing how a decision I made tonight almost took me away from them all.

Another wave of tears almost hit me once more. They arrive the second after I dry off, secure the towel around myself, and open the bathroom door—faced with the person I love the absolute most. Liam sits on the edge of our bed, half dressed. His black dress pants unbuttoned. His belt looped through their holes but remained unlatched. A black, sleeveless undershirt clinging to his upper body. The diamond studs in his ears glistening underneath the warm lighting cast out by the lamps on our nightstands.

I say the first thing on my mind. "You should be downstairs."

Even with our bedroom door shut, you can hear boots hitting the hardwood floor below us. A soft, gentle hum of conversation ascends from below as the cleaning, recovery, and organization of the finished raid continue early into the morning. The only thing they're missing is their leader.

Liam doesn't give his answer much thought. "I was worried about you."

I want to argue. I want to tell him that they need him downstairs, but that would accomplish nothing. He isn't leaving, no matter how much I try to convince him that they need him more than I do. An outright lie.

I lower myself beside him and a silent moment passes, one filled with peace and security. Liam turns his attention towards me, his eyes dancing across the shadows on my face. He lowers his voice and leans into me, eyes on mine. "Everyone downstairs is in good hands, and I'll be what they need me to be soon. But you're not okay. I can't go down there until you are."

And suddenly I'm cold, my shiver drawing Liam's attention to the goosebump on my arms. He offers me a weak smile and he rests a hand on my lower thigh, squeezing gently. He stands and begins to cross the room. "What do you want to wear?"

"Something comfy." I respond.

The bra and underwear he tosses over his shoulder nearly smack me in the face. He doesn't see the smile that begins to pull the corner of my lips across as I dress quickly. His response to my surprised shriek was a low chuckle, transitioning to a laugh as he continues to rummage through my clothes. By the time he turns around, I'm partially dressed.

"Interesting." He holds a pair of black leggings in one hand and a very specific grey hoodie in the other. He lifts it high, motioning towards the slight tear in its front pocket. "This hoodie looks awfully familiar, almost like it was mine."

I smile innocently. "By golly, I don't know how that—"

The hoodie smacks me in the face.

My back hits the mattress as our bedroom fills with laughter. The tears that were once on the verge of spilling over from my overthinking are suddenly replaced with that of laughter. A feeling of happiness that swells in your chest, one you can only do but appreciate in the moment.

Liam tries to fight back another laugh as I rip the hoodie away from my face and sit up. "What socks do you want?" He asks.

I pull his hoodie over my head. "My fluffy socks, please."

"The ones that leave lint all over my floors?"

"Those exact ones."

Liam returns with my requested socks and lowers himself to his knee. The smile that dances across his lips is a beautiful one. It fades, as my own does the same. Quietly, he uses his other knee to prop my foot up. Something shifts. The feeling of happiness that settled on my chest just a few moments before is something of the recent past. Liam slides one sock on.

"I killed my mom." I admit softly. I was fixated on his facial features when I admitted it, silently admiring the curvature of his jaw, the prominence of his cheek bones, his lips. For some reason, under this light, it was hard to tell who he resembled more---Jaiyana Zara or Michael Davidé.

Liam stops and looks up, forcing me to fixate on a random piece of flooring behind him. He doesn't say a word.

"I don't regret it." I add, "I don't regret putting a bullet in anybody that would put one in me, or anybody that I love for that matter." I shift, trying to find a more comfortable position. "But..." My shrug is a weak one.

Liam squeezes my ankle, gently massaging the back of my calf as I search for the right words. His gaze is intense, it always has been, but I can't quite meet it tonight. I'm scared. Of what, I don't know. He senses my hesitation, maybe even my fright, and lowers himself back to both knees. He gently traps me between him and the mattress and rests his arms on either side of me.

I immediately relax with his touch. Everything I needed to finish my story.

"She had her gun on me, mine on her, and she said if I pulled the trigger that she would too." I can feel the tears coming again. "That if she died, I would too. And I didn't hesitate. I didn't hesitate to make a decision that might have taken me away from you and everybody I love, and that's what's bothering me. It scared me. I scared myself."

Liam looks up at me from my lap. A second passes, his eyes dancing between my own. Then he speaks. "Your mother would have pulled her trigger whether you did or not. Faith, you had no choice to make. And the only choice you did have, you made it without hesitation. You should be proud of yourself." He leans back, props himself back on one knee, and begins to put my other sock on. "I am."

"Diavolo took the bullet." I say after a second passes. Liam hesitates, his movement slowing just long enough for him to process my statement. He yanks the obnoxiously fluffy sock up my calf and swats at the lint that it leaves behind. "I wouldn't be here if—"

Liam's pained smile encourages my own. He stands quickly and offers me his hand, which I gladly take. His hands find way to my waist as he pulls me close. We spin gently. "I'll thank him before I kill him," He whispers with a laugh. His laugh, as does his smile, causes me to do the same. "I was thinking," Liam adds after a momentary silence, "I don't think I could do this without you."

I place my arms around his neck and scoff. "Don't be ridiculous."

His eyes catch something over my shoulder, and his voice lowers to something above a whisper. "You're stronger than me. I don't think you realize that yet."

"And you're so much kinder than me," I respond. "For someone who has seen so much and has had so much more taken from him, your heart is so much larger than mine." Our swaying slows. "You didn't have to do that. You didn't have to risk everything to save people you didn't know. You didn't have to risk everything to save the Santiago parents when you couldn't even save your own. Liam, you didn't have to."

He pulls away from me.

The uncomfortable feeling in my chest has unfortunately become a recognizable one. Anger. I clench my jaw, shut my eyes, and watch the woman who adopted me die once more. "Because I would have never—" I begin to admit.

Liam doesn't let me finish. He knows where I was going with that, anyway. "I wasn't given all this power and all of this money to waste it. Yes," He nods, "I'm going to buy all the cars, and yes, I'm going to put the biggest diamond you have ever seen on your finger..." Liam lets out a breath, "But what I've lost and what I've seen doesn't matter. If the time ever comes that I can use what I've been given for the good of anybody else, I'm going to do it. No hesitation." He smiles.

And I do the same. "That's why I love you."

"Not more than I love you," is his response.

I lower myself to the mattress and use my arm as a makeshift pillow. I don't dare put a real pillow underneath me at this ungodly hour of the morning. I would be out in a matter of seconds, and I would completely miss partaking in my absolute favorite pastime. Watching Liam get dressed.

He does it effortlessly, but the result is always breathtaking. It didn't matter what color he puts on, it always manages to go well with his complexion. I always enjoy the moments when he looks over his shoulder and motions for me to help him, as he does tonight. I join him at his side without a word and smile at the color of his choice tonight. Black. Classic, and as always, timeless.

Liam shrugs the black dress shirt over his broad shoulders and allows me to finish the job. I work to fasten the buttons of his shirt, bottom to top. I glance at us in the mirror, then at his phone, resting on the dresser. It flashes with a notification, but it's his lock screen that makes me smile. One of the many pictures we've taken together in the same mirror that reflects us, now.

"You're wrong." I say softly, breaking the peaceful silence between us. I carefully fix his collar, probably longer than it needs to be fixed. "I couldn't do this without you."

Liam grabs my wrist gently, forcing me to focus on him rather than his shirt. His lips part, but it feels like his words take an eternity to leave them. Rather, he presses a kiss to my fingertips, and promises, "I'll do everything I can to make sure you never have to."

I don't dare call it a promise. To call it a promise in a life like this would be damn near like jinxing it. But whatever it is, he seals it with a kiss. I meet him halfway, my head tilting up while his, down. His hands grab at my waist and tug me close to him. Mine, clinging to the small amount of extra fabric on his shirt. He spins us effortlessly, pinning me against the dresser and him.

He breaks the kiss for air, and I smile, tilting my head back just the slightest. My arms find their way around his neck as he leans forward again. "Don't you have a picture of us similar to this in your phone?"

"Yes," His words are nothing but a warm vibration against my neck. He leaves a trail of kisses in the direction of my ear. "Just with less clothes on."

He doesn't have to say much more. The memory is vivid.

I fight a smile as he lips brush against mine, "Hopefully Rosie doesn't stumble across that one."

"Don't worry, I deleted all the games in my phone."

This kiss is gentle. Everything that was the opposite of tonight. And everything I needed. Love and comfort. Maybe even the most important of them all; reassurance.

I pull away and take his face in my hands. Another I love you isn't required. He nods with a smile. He didn't have to say it, to say it back. My hands drop to his chest as he presses me against the dresser once more, purposely over exaggerating his search for accessories behind my head. All I can do is laugh as he draws out the process of finding his favorite watch and my favorite chain.

His hips keep me pinned against the dresser as he lifts his attention to his reflection from over my shoulder. I had the best seat in the house to watch the way his dress shirt moves with every muscle contraction in his arm as he secures the chain around his neck. It was my favorite for its simplicity. It was one of the thinnest chains he owned, but the size did not decrease its value. It was his most expensive, and paired with a black shirt, proved it was worth every single penny.

There's a knock at the door as soon as Liam latches the watch to his wrist.

The slyest smile pulls his lips apart, showcasing a row of the whitest teeth I've ever seen as he takes the smallest step back. My feet touch the floor once more and I playfully hit his arm. I move around Liam and join him at his left side, quickly fanning myself with his oversized hoodie before company joins us. It was suddenly extremely hot in here.

And the temperature does nothing but rise as his most respected soldiers march through the door, still decked out in the military grade gear they used to infiltrate the Rostov mansion. Giovanni and Tatum. They look tired, but other than exhaustion wearing their features down, they look good.

"Liam," Giovanni greets, shutting the door behind him.

"Ms. Crawford," Tatum finishes in greeting.

They don't wait for us to greet them back.

"The remaining assassins from the OA that we managed to save are currently being escorted back to the estate," Giovanni states, his attention drifting between Liam and I. "They can rest there for the remainder of the morning, and you can make your decision on what happens with them whenever you're ready."

Liam nods, absentmindedly fiddling with the fit of his watch. "How many did we lose?" He questions, something he's probably been wondering since we made it out.

"Five of our own," Giovanni doesn't hesitate. "Two of theirs." The number feels so small compared to the amount of soldiers we went into the Rostov mansion with, but five feels like a lot when they were your friends. You can see it on their faces. On Gio and Tatum. Their disappointment. Their loss.

Liam's nod is solemn. "If they have fam—"

"We've notified them." Tatum's response is curt.

I want to say more. I want to say so much more. I want to tell them how sorry I am. I want to tell the two soldiers in command that I appreciate and respect them, along with all those who obey their orders, more than I ever have after tonight. It's one thing to watch them do their job, but it was another to actually do it with them.

And to watch them swarm inside the Rostov mansion on a mission to save individuals they've never met and might never even speak to, without hesitation, all because they were provided with an order from the one they've sworn their life too is something I don't think I'll ever fully understand. But I respect it.

There's a reason I don't say more. The look on Gio and Tatum's faces suggest they're not here for conversation, but a brief follow-up with Liam to make sure they are all on the same page.

"Cleaning crew is working downstairs," Tatum announces, his attention on Liam. "We want to know what you want to do with Nathaniel Rostov's body."

"Chop it up."

Everyone turns to me at the sound of my voice.

"Chop him up and send his body to Valentin, one piece at a time. Maybe he'll have his entire son back by Christmas, as a present from me, Liam, and Rosalie."

The two glance at each other, a smile threatening to break their serious demeanor. They focus their attention back on me, and the response they provide is all the confirmation we need.

"As you wish."

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Liam's exit is nearly as swift as his soldiers'. He was reluctant to pull away from the hug I pulled him into. Reluctant to pull my head away from his chest, my eyes shut, as I listened to the one sound that never failed to lull me to sleep. His heartbeat.

I let him go, not because I want to, but because I know there's people downstairs that need him more than me.

His departing kiss is so soft I think I imagine it, and with a promise to see each other shortly, he leaves with the phone pressed against his ear. I take my time, working my hair into a bun. Content with my appearance, I grab my phone off the edge of the bed and make my way out the room.

I'm in the middle of typing out a text to Carmen when I look up. Veleno. The assassin appears taller than ever now that we're standing in the upstairs hallway alone than when we're in a room full of others his height. He has a bandaged hand resting on a bedroom door, his ear pressed just above it.

I felt better about my wardrobe selection when I see his. Comfortable, was the theme we were going for tonight. Veleno had traded out his black shirt and bulletproof vest for a sleeveless tank top and shorts. But the top does nothing to conceal the muscles in his abdomen, nor the dark bruise that's begun to form on his side. White gauze wraps around his upper bicep, a dark, red stain slowly forming beneath.

"Are you okay?"

I know something's wrong when the assassin jumps, so zoned in on whatever is happening behind the door that he didn't notice me approaching.

Veleno slowly pushes himself away from the door once I reach him. His arms are extended before I can extend mine, and I smile at the fact that he pulls me into a hug. Something I've learned to always be grateful for, especially from people like him.

"You did good tonight," He tells me when we pull away.

I thank him, but my concern causes me to tug softly at his sleeveless shirt, revealing the deep blue and black of his rib cage.

Veleno tears his attention away from me, his eyes focused on the detailing of the massive bedroom door. He tenses immediately, anticipating a touch that never comes. Even his breathing is labored. He's in pain, and with every breath he takes in and every breath he lets out, it gets worse.

I grab him by the forearm and tug him in the direction of the stairs, "We're getting you pain medication." I don't leave room for questions.

I forget exactly how strong he is. He doesn't budge.

I turn back, prepared to give him my best motherly speech. I'm ready to stand firm and say that he doesn't deserve to suffer. He doesn't have to suffer. I'm ready to tell him that I don't care if all the doctors have left, we're going to find something to ease his pain—at least long enough for him to get some rest. I never stood a chance. My speech is nothing but a memory once I see the expression on Veleno's face.

I once stood firm and said that there was nothing scarier than an assassin and his smile.

I retract that statement, or at least, I challenge it.

Federico laughed in the face of torture. With every second that passed with his head held underneath water and each strike taken against his back, his smile grew. Veleno drove a dagger through the hand of one of the most lethal assassins in the world and laughed. I had never seen a smile wider than the one he shared with blood leaking between his fingers after taking a gunshot to the shoulder. They are trained to laugh in the face of fear. So, what do you do when they don't?

"Have you seen Crixus?" Worry is etched across every feature on his face. There was never any doubt in my mind of how much Veleno cares about Crixus, and if there was any, it's gone. By the passing second, the gauze around his arm grows even more red and his wincing has begun to occur in rapid succession. But he's more worried about the boy than he is about himself.

I return his question with one of my own. "He's not with his parents?"

"No, he's not with Rico or Dom either," Veleno winces slightly, yanking quickly at his shirt as it brushes against his ribs. He turns around and motions towards the door that leads to the bedroom Federico and Carmen share. He motions towards it, "I was coming to ask Liam if he had seen him, but then I...I thought I heard something."

He steps away from the door, and I take his place. I hear nothing, then I close my eyes. What I hear is faint, almost nonexistent without focus. Someone is crying.

I tend to state the obvious. "It sounds like someone is—"

"Crying." Veleno nods. "I was going to go in there, but..." He begins to fidget. "I'm sc—" Veleno lets out a breath, "I mean, I don't know what's wrong, and what if I can't be what he needs me to be?"

"All he needs is you, Veleno."

The assassin lets out a nervous breath.

"I'll go in with you if that will make you feel better." I reach for his forearm and swiftly step out the way once I tug him towards the door. He hesitates, but a soft smile of encouragement in his direction is enough to convince him. He opens the doors and steps inside. I'm right behind him.

You can hear it. You can hear someone take in a sharp breath, trying all they can to silence their cries once the door opens. I know the feeling all too well. The way your lungs burn and your stomach clenches with every passing second, just begging that the person who entered the room leaves as fast as they came.

I shut the door behind us as Veleno calls out. "Crixus?" We move around the bed, both of us coming to a halt once we come to the other side of it.

Crixus sits on the floor, curled against the side of the bed. He doesn't greet us, let alone acknowledge us. He can only hold his breath for so long, and his lungs give way, forcing out a painful sob. The breaking of a dam. He cries, and he cries hard. His breathing is quick, as is the shaking of his shoulders. As the rate of his tears increase, the closer he pulls his legs to his chest and the tighter he wraps his arms around himself.

I notice the dagger by his feet.

Veleno takes a cautious step forward. "Crix—"

"Stop." The boy demands through his tears. He chokes out another, "Stop." Emotion continues to shake his small body. "Don't touch me."

Veleno does as he's told. He turns and looks at me. A silent request for my help. I can only do what he's done for me so many times. He's never hesitated to help me when I was training. Whether that was providing me with an easier way to perform a more complicated move or providing me with professional insight. I was grateful for it all, and thankful that I can now return the favor. This was training, too. Just a different kind.

I lower myself to the ground and press my back against the wall facing Crixus. Always meet them where they're at. If they're standing, I stand. If they're sitting, I sit. Veleno follows suit.

A long second passes before Veleno tries again. "I'm worried about you." One could not deny it if they heard his gentle tone. "I want to help, and you sound like you're having a panic attack or something." Crixus doesn't say anything. Veleno inches closer.

I'm silent because it hurts. I understand how much it hurts. But it doesn't just hurt because I can relate to Crixus. It hurts because it is Crixus. Somebody who in any other moment you would doubt even knew another emotion other than pure joy. Despite it all. Despite everything he's shared and everything he hasn't, carrying around a smile that can brighten up the darkest room. That's why it hurts.

Veleno reaches his side by the time I've returned with a tissue box. He offers me a silent thank you and accepts my gift into his lap as he wraps an arm around Crixus. His panicked breathing has slowed, as did the shaking of his shoulders. He visibly fights Veleno's touch, but reluctantly relaxes into it. Crixus rests his head against Veleno's shoulders with a shaky sigh.

"You know you can tell me anything," Veleno encourages.

Crixus wipes at the unfallen tears in his eyes. "You'll laugh. So will Ms. Faith."

"No she won't," Veleno answers for me, "And neither will I. I didn't laugh when you told me about the nightmares you were having."

"This is diff—" The boy's voice cracks, another wave of tears shaking his small body. Veleno wraps another arm around Crixus, holding him close as he cries.

He speaks again once Crixus has calmed down. "Do you think we'll look at you differently if you tell me what's wrong?"

The simple movement of shaking his head in confirmation jars a few more tears loose. Veleno lets out a soft chuckle as Crixus wipes at his face. The eldest assassin reaches for a tissue and my heart swells as he wipes away the tears Crixus missed. The youngest assassin squirms as a two-year-old would when their mother tries to clean their face with wipe. The comparison makes me smile and pains me all at the same time.

For just a second, the ghost of a smile passes over Crixus's youthful face, and then it's gone. Veleno misses it. Something just short of pain follows, caused by a memory. He rests his head against Veleno's chest and breathes out a sigh. "I'm afraid of guns."

Crixus doesn't see Veleno's confused expression as he rests his chin against the boy's head of curly hair and continues to hold him for comfort. To wait patiently is all we can do as Crixus gathers the confidence to explain.

"I'm not afraid to look down the barrel of one," He clarifies. "I'm afraid when I'm holding it." His eyes shut tight at the memory, "I have trouble breathing and my chest starts to hurt and it's the worst feeling in the world."

It clicks for me, and I speak up, "You shot the soldier holding Dominic tonight."

Crixus squeezes his eyes shut. And just as the memory plays out before him, it does for me. Him, reaching for the extra pistol strapped to the holster of the soldier nearest to him and aiming—with perfect form might I add—at the Russian holding his brother hostage. "I didn't have a choice," He confirms quietly, "I didn't think my dagger would've made it in time."

Veleno looks impressed. "You were in the middle of a panic attack and not only was your form damn near textbook, you put the bullet right through his eye?"

"I always aim for the eye." Crixus pauses. He manipulates his body, trying to get comfortable, and rests his head in Veleno's lap. Crixus's laugh is a beautiful sound as he reaches for Veleno's face, "Sorry. Not your eye."

Veleno smiles down at him. "I appreciate that."

Their smiles fade as Crixus lets out a breath. "I never said I wasn't trained on how to use a gun..." He says after a while.

"Something happened," Veleno concludes quietly, insinuating what we all knew. Crixus's fear didn't stem from nothing, and the way the boy tenses in Veleno's lap suggests the same. He pushes a few strands of curly hair away from the boy's eyes, "Do you want to talk about that?"

Crixus wipes at the dry tears that stain his cheeks. He stares up at his friend, or should I say best friend, and contemplates the question. I could only wish to know what he was thinking, staring up at the assassin he not only admires, but considers a brother. His unwavering confidence has always been admirable to me, even at the young age of fifteen. Any ounce of that same confidence is gone when he speaks.

"What are you afraid of?"

"Look me in the eyes and ask me that again."

Crixus opens his and does as partially requested. He doesn't need to pose his question again, as his attention drifts between the eye Veleno can see out of and the eye he cannot.

"I'm afraid because my weakness is on display for the world to see," Veleno continues softly. "It's not something I can hide. It's not something I can run from. It's not something I can fix. And everyone can see it. Does that make them better than me? That they can see my weakness and I can't see theirs?"

It wasn't a question that needed answering, but Crixus does so anyway, quietly. "No."

Veleno nods, "Do you know what makes a good assassin great?"

Crixus provides the one answer that would appear to be obvious. "Their talent?"

"The understanding of their fear," Veleno answers just as softly. "Because if we understand the one thing that makes us weak, then what can stop us?"

Crixus, nor I, have an answer for him. "I want you to be great," Veleno continues. "I know you're going to be great, but to be that you need to understand that this is something you should have told me and your brother. We need to know so we can protect you. So we can help you if something like this happens outside of this house." Veleno sighs, "And if you work with another assassin for a long enough period of time, like me and your brother work together, this is something you should tell them, too."

Crixus plays with the hem of Veleno's shirt, listening quietly. He speaks after a moment. "Does Rico know your fear?"

"As well as I know his."

I wish I could take a picture and frame this moment forever. The picture capturing even the smallest details that my eyes cannot. The way Crixus rests his head in Veleno's lap, his legs in the air as he rests the back of them against the side of the mattress. The way Veleno cradles the boy, one hand making sure his hair remains away from his face, the other supporting his side as one would a newborn. Veleno's ankles crossed.

"Ms. Faith," Crixus tries to glance over his shoulder at me but struggles due to the hold Veleno has on him. "What're you afraid of?"

I smile, "Everything. I'm a crybaby."

He laughs into Veleno's shirt. The silence that follows is peaceful, but what Crixus follows up with is not.

"I had a best friend in the OA," His voice is hardly above a whisper. He picks at Veleno's shirt, pausing long enough to acknowledge the bruise on his friend's side. Crixus doesn't say anything for a short time. "She was a couple months younger than me, but she was my favorite. When our real training started, they took us away from our parents' and we spent all our time together. She was the best."

"What happened?" The oldest assassin inquires.

"I killed her." A simple statement made so calmly that the tears that follow almost feel unnatural. This time, they're silent.

I close my eyes before they can do the same.

"They said she was stupid," He struggles to explain. "But she just learned differently than us. They didn't care. They didn't think she would ever be as good as me, or the others, and the OA only breeds the best." Crixus shudders as he finishes, "And to prove to them that I was, they made me execute her."

All Veleno can do is hold him as he cries. "With a gun," He concludes softly. "How old were you?"

I stand when I hear his answer.

"Ten."

I wasn't lying when I told Crixus I was a cry-baby because I'm crying now. I move away from the two and wipe at the corner of my eyes. The room would be dangerously silent if it weren't for Crixus's unsteady breaths.

His story is over, yet somehow remains unfinished. He doesn't speak about the look they shared when he raised the weapon to her head. The same one that surely haunts him night after night, even five years later. He doesn't speak about the last thing he told her, or her to him. He doesn't speak about if he had to turn his head before he pulled the trigger, or if he was close enough to watch himself strip the light from her eyes. He doesn't speak about what he felt when her body hit the ground. He doesn't speak about it at all, and he may never

Something clicks. A memory I share with Crixus during one of our first encounters.

The specific memory being the time he told me the name of his two Katana's. Lindsey and Lindsay. It had been a joke, but it feels purposeful now, and I won't be able to sleep until I confirm that.

"What was her name?" I ask.

"Lindsey."

What Crixus says next confirms why the only difference between the name of one katana and the other is an 'a' and an 'e'.

"I never found out how she spelled her name."

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

I don't know how long I stand outside the bedroom door, leaning against the wall. I can hear Crixus's tears subside and the low hum of their conversation from through the door. I can't make out the topic and honestly, I don't want to. They deserve the privacy, but what I hear before I push myself away in search of my next mission is undeniable.

"You're the little brother I always asked my parents' for," Veleno tells Crixus. "And I love you. So much."

Rosie. All Crixus's story did was remind me of Rosie. She put a bullet through the head of Valentin Rostov's only biological heir. A bullet through the head of a man who would have eventually taken the throne. I'm proud and terrified for her, all at the same time. Crixus might have been even younger when he took his first life, but this isn't what I, or Liam, wanted for Rosalie. It never was.

But I'm starting to learn that what we want is no competition against what is already written.

"Vince?" I lean my head against the door to his bedroom, peering through the slight crack. Rosalie's bedroom was empty, which I expected. She wouldn't want to be alone right now. Maybe not for a while. I push the door open a little more and try again, "Vincenzo?"

No response.

I'm about to shut the door and continue my search for Rosie, until my eyes fall to the droplets of blood that dot his floor.

I push his door open wider, aware of every step I take to make sure blood doesn't get on my favorite pair of socks. The trail is easy to follow. It ends in the bathroom. And at the feet of Vincenzo De Santis. He can barely stand before the mirror, one tattooed covered, blood-stained hand gripping the edge of the marble countertop. The other, gingerly attempting to work a needle and thread through the gash just above his eyebrow. The pain must be unfathomable. Because he nearly collapses the second the needle pierces his skin.

The needle drops to the sink as his other hand finds the corner of the counter for stability. He sways. My first thought being that there is no way in hell I could catch a man of his size.

I don't see it until I reach his side. The bruises that have begun to form along his chest, on his stomach, and at his sides. In certain lighting, it might resemble one large, single bruise. I take in a sharp breath, guiding him away from the counter to face me. Blood runs down his chest from a thin laceration across his neck, seemingly cutting one of his tattoos in half.

My hands hover just above his skin, still scared that he might collapse at any second. The damage that the Russian soldiers did to him is at my fingertips. Every punch he took to the chest and boot to his abdomen was not enough to deter him from his mission. Protect Rosie.

His attention lowers to me. Blood runs down the side of his face, threatening to reach his eye. "I couldn't just fight for my life," He says quietly, "I had to fight for hers, too."

Fourteen. Fourteen was the number of dead Russian soldiers' that Liam and I counted on the second floor. Blood was everywhere. Some had their heads turned unnaturally away from their body. Others were riddled with bullet holes. Some, slumped against the same wall they had their heads walked down. All of this done, with Rosalie dancing between the retired assassin's legs. If he could do this now, we could only imagine the damage he had inflicted in his prime.

I finally let out the breath I'm holding. "You should've seen a doctor."

He sounds breathless when he responds, "They were all busy."

I don't have time to decide if he's lying or not. I guide him to the corner and watch as he gingerly lowers himself to the closed lid of the toilet seat. His face does nothing to hide his discomfort. We share no words when I return to his side, hands full of cleaning and bandaging supplies.

He presses the clean towel to his temple, applying as much pressure as he can to slow the bleeding. I apologize before I tilt his head back and work the warm, wet towel across the laceration on his neck and down the trail of blood it leaves. The cuts on his arms, hands, and blood along his knuckles only take a few minutes to cleanse, but they reveal to be only minor. Nothing a little antiseptic and a band-aid can't heal.

But it's the gash on his temple that worries me. "Let me see," I request.

He winces, and with my help, slowly pulls the towel away to reveal the damage. He seethes, blowing air through his clenched teeth with every gentle wipe. It doesn't take long for me to realize the blows he took to the head were the worst of them all. I was going to need help.

"It needs stitches," Vincenzo says quietly. "I tried. It hurt."

I don't deny that, nor do I question it. Rest assured, his and my pain tolerance are completely different.

He looks up at me, confused at my silence. "Do you know how to stitch?"

I blink. "Do I look like a surgeon?"

That earns a laugh. A pained laugh, but a laugh. He winces through another chuckle, then turns serious, "Where are you going?"

I'm already out the bathroom door. "I'm going to find someone to teach me."

The hallways are empty. I quicken my pace, hurrying towards the stairs to find a soldier who is knowledgeable about needles and human skin. My journey is a short one when I find Federico ascending the stairs.

Our eyes meet and I waste no time. "I need your help."

His attention falls to the blood on my hands. "Are you okay?"

"It's not mine." He reaches my side, and we take approximately five steps together before I admit, "It's Vince's."

Federico is no longer at my side.

I turn around to find him standing still in the empty hallway. A shadow passes over his face and his expression hardens immediately. His concern gone as quickly as it came. He doesn't even try to hide his pain. Rico's expression slowly begins to mirror the same one that washed over his face when Vincenzo uttered those unforgettable words: don't joke about something you will never be. Like a knife to the chest. And at the sound of his name, Federico experiences it for a second time.

He blinks, and the pain that was beginning to expose itself within the hazel of his eyes is gone. "Let him bleed out then."

"Rico." The tone of my voice stops him, mid-turn. His shoulders visibly fall. "For me." I plead. "Do it for me."

Federico doesn't say a word. He blows out a breath of air and quietly follows as I lead, navigating us both through Vincenzo's room and into the bathroom. Vincenzo remains seated, now leaning against the counter with one hand still applying pressure to the side of his head. He opens one eye just long enough to see who I brought back. I'll never know if he closes them due to the throbbing pain in his head or the pain in his chest at the sight of the boy he raised.

Vincenzo speaks as Federico lowers himself to a knee to investigate the damage. "You brought back the one person that wants me dead?"

My response drifts from the corner of the bathroom that I choose to watch their interaction from, "Shut up."

"You're lucky I love her." Federico leans forward, slowly moving the towel away from Vincenzo's temple. He doesn't see the look Vincenzo gives him as he grabs the first aid kit from the counter and places it by his feet, silently rummaging through it for supplies. He places the needle between his lips, wraps the string around one finger, balances the roll of white gauze on his knee, and grabs the bottle of alcohol.

Federico mumbles something that sounds like, "This is going to hurt like a bitch."

Rico doesn't give Vincenzo time to mentally prepare himself. He douses a clean towel with the antiseptic, grabs the side of Vincenzo's head, and presses the alcohol against the cut. The former king nearly falls off the seat as the alcohol burns, a necessary maneuver to kill bacteria and avoid a potentially dangerous infection. What wasn't necessary was how long Federico held it against Vincenzo's temple, forcing him to endure an extra second of pain.

Federico drops the towel and starts to focus on threading his needle. The only sound in the room is Vincenzo's labored breathing. But Rico stops, his fingers still working the thread through the needle when he hears Vince's voice, "I'm sorry." Something about it is different. Enough to gather his attention. "I'm so sorry."

Federico shakes his head, suggesting he doesn't buy it. He reaches forward, rests a hand on the side of Vincenzo's head, preparing to stitch his wound closed.

Vince stops him with a hand around Rico's wrist. And Federico is forced to look the man he once considered a father in the eyes. "You were never a replacement. You were everything I needed, and I am so sorry that I couldn't be what you did."

Rico has no response for him. He leans forward, focused on the task at hand. My eyes narrow as the needle pierces Vincenzo's skin, and I wince like it's happening to me.

"I just wish you would've told me how you felt sooner," Vincenzo lets out a pained breath as Federico continues to work. "Because the times you thought I was thinking about my dead son, I was dreading the fact that your parents' might knock on my door and take you away from me. I was so sure that they were going to show up any day and take away the one thing that made me happy after I lost everybody, and I would have to give you back."

Federico works slowly. He doesn't stop until he hears Vincenzo's voice waver.

"I begged to have forever with you," I can barely hear Vincenzo as he speaks just a little above a whisper, "I just didn't know forever had a date."

Because what Vincenzo spent so much time dreading has come true. The Santiago parents might not have knocked on his door, but they were downstairs as we speak. The father Vincenzo could never be to Rico was downstairs and the mother he always needed was at his side. The silence is spent with the former De Santis duo pondering where it went wrong. Or maybe it never did. Maybe it was never right. But reflecting on the past will do nothing for the duo now. Forever did had a date. And it was today.

Rico returns to a kneeling position, briefly admiring his work, doing everything he can to avoid eye contact. "I forgive you," He states quickly before cutting two small pieces of white tape and placing them across the fresh stitches to avoid them from separating. "Let me clarify," Federico adds once he leans back, "I forgive you for what you said to me. Maybe you did see me as a son, but I will never forgive you for what you did to me."

He stands, and Vincenzo tries to stop him.

"I hate you." Federico admits, "I hate you with everything that I have. I hate you because I know if this fucking building went up in flames tonight, I would run back in here and save you." His shoulders drop, "Even after everything you've done. That's why I hate you. I hate you because every time I look at you and every time I hear your name I'm reminded of the one thing I hate more than anything in this world. Myself."

Vincenzo tries to stand, "Rico, I was just—"

"Trying to save me?" The assassin spits back in question. The anger in Federico's voice is clear. But the tears rushing to the corner of his eyes tell a different story. "I'm not Crixus. I'm not Veleno. I'm not your son. I wasn't built for this like they are. And if you opened your eyes for a split fucking second you would have seen that. But I didn't stop trying to be what you wanted me to be because I wanted you to be proud of me." A tear escapes. "Nobody has ever been proud of me."

Vincenzo asks the one question on his mind. "Why didn't you just tell me?" When Federico doesn't answer, he continues, "I was trying to save you. But I did it the only way I know how—"

Federico closes the short distance between the two. I swear I imagine Vincenzo De Santis flinch. "I didn't need saving. I needed you to love me." The angry expression on Rico's face falters at his realization, "But I don't even think I can be mad at you for that. I don't think you even know what love is. Your mother was murdered when you were small, and your father was an absolute dick until the day he died. And every woman you've chased after to try and find it in, is dead."

Vincenzo takes a half step backwards. The truth, slowly registering that maybe Federico might be right.

Federico lets out a breath. "I'm done with you. I don't even want your name." He turns away from the man he once considered a father and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. "I hate Fantasma because you made him. I hate you because you ruined me. And I hate that I still love you. But I don't need you. I don't need you anymore. My dad is downstairs."

Vincenzo's lips part, but his words are delayed. "I hope he's everything you need him to be."

Rico turns to leave, then pauses, a thought crossing his mind that he can't leave without voicing. "And I don't have a problem being your fuck up, as long as you do right by that little girl." Rosalie. "Be who she needs you to be, not who you want her to be. She needs a father, not a trainer. And please, just love her."

Vince's frustration is visible, "You just said I don't know how—"

"Because you spent all your time trying to find it in the wrong people," Rico shoots back. "You invited woman after woman into our home searching for it, when it was here the whole time. If anybody can teach you love, it's her. It's Rosie."

Rico doesn't give Vincenzo time to respond. "And if you need another definition of it, I'm going to bring your son back to you. For you. He doesn't know it yet, but I'm going to save him." Federico begins to retreat, his attention on Vincenzo just long enough for him to hear, "But let that be the last thing I ever do for you."

I wonder which one it was. Was it the day, as just a child, where fear paralyzed Vincenzo so much that he could do nothing but watch as his mother was pulled out of their car and beaten to death? Or was it the phone call he received one fateful morning, telling him there was nothing he could do? That the woman he wanted to marry and the child he never got to meet had been executed. Was it the day he learned that his childhood best friend, Michael Luciano, had left him? Was it the frozen second in time when the Russian soldiers' stripped the crown from his head? Or was it the moment Jaiyana Zara reached forward to take her son's hand, one last time? Or was as it this one?

I wonder which one it was.

I wonder which goodbye hurt the most.

But this was a goodbye that even hurt me. Maybe that's why I step forward, more concerned with getting Federico to turn around and hug it out with the man he once considered a father. With the other half of a duo even I didn't want to say goodbye too. With the other half of the De Santis name that put Detroit, Michigan on the map.

"Rico—" I call out.

"Let him go," Vincenzo tells me. He hurries to busy himself, wiping down the blood-stained countertops. His expression, reflected by the mirror doesn't change—eyebrows pressed together, lips turned downward. "Just let him go," He tells himself.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." He catches my reflection in the mirror as I walk by, providing a gentle squeeze to the one forearm that didn't take as much damage as the other. Vince motions to his patched cut. "And thank you."

I'm out of the bathroom and almost out of his bedroom when there's a soft knock at the door. My heart swells at the sight of Rosalie peering her head through the crack. She smiles softly and pulls herself, along with the person whose hand she holds, into the room. She looks as though she's about to ask me something, then her eyes catch movement in the bathroom.

Rosalie drops everything. The stuffed animal she was clutching to her chest hits the floor as she races towards the bathroom, arms extended before she can reach her target. Vincenzo bends just enough to scoop the little girl up in his arms. His spin makes her laugh. And all the pain that was once on Vincenzo's face washes away as they come to stand in the bathroom doorway. Rosalie keeps one arm around his neck, the other she flexes with a laugh.

"That's right," Vincenzo encourages. He squeezes her small bicep and then flexes his own.

I can't help but laugh, and Liam does the same as he comes to my side. His arm finds a way around my waist, pulling me close. Vincenzo carries Rosie toward us. "She was worried about you," Liam tells him. "We were looking for you everywhere."

Rosalie doesn't hear Liam. Trusting that Vincenzo's arm will keep her secure at his side, she releases the hold around his neck and starts storytelling. "You should have seen it!" The little girl tosses a right hook, then a left. Vincenzo leans his head backwards, making sure he doesn't receive another punch tonight. "Dad was like this and this," She swings again as demonstration. "You have to show me how to do that and you have to show me how you killed the guy using the wall with his head—"

Vincenzo laughs. "Maybe when you're a little bigger." He thinks a former piece of advice through, "And only if you want," He reassures quietly.

Rosalie tosses both arms around his neck and pulls Vincenzo close. Nobody sees my smile. My heart feels like it's being pulled in two different directions. In the span of fifteen minutes, I watched an infamous duo fall apart and I watch another come together. Like it was supposed to happen. Like it was always meant to be.

"Rosie, aren't you forgetting to ask him something?" Liam prompts.

Her voice is muffled as she tries to speak through another yawn. "I'm scared." She admits, "Can I sleep with you?"

Vince looks like he's been caught off guard. "I'm sure you would rather stay with—"

"No." She doesn't let him finish. "You protected me."

"And you protected me," Vincenzo states.

"Then I'm staying with you," Rosie finishes. There's no argument to be made. She squirms out of Vincenzo's hold and scurries over, grabbing her stuffed animal before leaping onto the large bed. She flops down in the middle of the mattress, a large smile on her face. "I need my beauty sleep. I sleep first, you keep watch for the bad guys'."

Vince snorts, "I need beauty sleep too."

"No you don't. You'll always be ugly."

Vincenzo makes a face. She mocks it.

"Ms. Faith?" I zone in at the sound of my name, my attention falling to Rosalie's figure as she sits up in bed. Her immediate concern is on me. "You're looking at me like you don't recognize me."

Her comment doesn't register until I blink. "No," I quickly answer, moving towards the side of the bed, "No, Rosie, that's not..." My words fade, failing me in a moment I need them the most. Maybe I didn't recognize her, or maybe I was just quietly looking for the only ounce of innocence that once resided in a house full of the opposite. "I didn't want you to have to do what you did tonight. I didn't want you to have to..." They fail me, again.

Kill. The word I was looking for was kill.

Her eyes meet mine. "I'm the same person," She reassures, her hand finding the hand of her stuffed animal. "The only difference is this time I had a gun."

Liam joins me at my side. "Rosie, I think what Faith is trying to say is—"

She doesn't let him finish. "You're mad at me."

He tilts his head, "We're not mad—"

"Good." She sits up straighter, "Because I would do it again." Rosalie's eyes dart between the two of us, trying to anticipate a reaction. "Michael told me that killing people changes you. And I'll tell you the same thing I told him. I would rather lose me than lose you."

I shake my head softly in disagreement, "Sweetheart, you don't even understand—"

"I don't care." Rosalie uses the back of her fist to wipe at her eyes, stopping a tear from escaping. "Everyone always leaves me. Mom left. Michael left. Mama Z left. Michael left. You," Her eyes drift over to Liam, "We barely talk anymore. Rico is always with Aunt Carmen or Crixus." Her eyes find me, "You're always busy," Then she finds Vincenzo, "And I couldn't tell you that I knew you were my dad. So I don't care what it means. I don't want to lose anyone else. I'm not going to lose anyone else."

There's something about the way she says it that worries me. Liam hears it, too. He lowers himself to the edge of the mattress as Vincenzo does the same on the other side. Liam's question is simple. "What happened?"

Rosalie's troubled breathing sounds much like Crixus's earlier. "I feel like I lost Michael again." She glances downwards, away from all eyes. "Sometimes at school if somebody was being mean to me, I would hear his voice in my head, and it would make me happy. I would remember something he said to me, and it would make me smile. And sometimes if I was scared, I would imagine that he was beside me, protecting me. But I don't hear his voice that much anymore. And I don't feel him beside me anymore."

She looks up. "He was with me before I pulled the trigger. But he was gone by the time that guy hit the ground. It felt different. It felt like goodbye."

I reach out, gently touching her arm. What I wanted to tell her was something I don't think she could stand to hear. It was something that slowly, surely, she would have to learn by herself. It was goodbye. But it could also her subconscious telling her that she no longer needed him. To perfection, she executed everything the late King once taught her.

Michael and Rosalie's relationship had always been like a dance. A daughter-father duo that if on the ballroom dance floor, would cause the entire congregation to stop what they were doing to watch. The spotlight, only on them. He taught her how to position her feet. He taught her to brace for pain. He taught her to never wait for a hand to help her stand up. He taught her how to shoot. He taught her protection. He taught her how to color within the lines. He taught her that mistakes were okay. He taught her love in the only way he knew how. He showed her, her strength. He broke her to make her. A waltz. Their waltz. A special, unique dance that only the two of them would ever know.

A waltz that ends sooner than it should have, but Michael doesn't leave until he knows she has landed safely in the arms of the one that would do an even better job than him. And I watch the events from earlier unfold as Rosalie drops the weapon that killed Nathaniel Rostov and rush into Vincenzo's arms. There's no doubt about it. It was the smoothest transition of dance partners, from Michael's hand to Vincenzo's, one could ever witness. It was goodbye.

"You should get some rest," I tell her. Liam agrees beside me.

Rosalie lowers her head to a pillow in silence. She watches us leave, but doesn't let us make it out of the room before she speaks up.

"They said I killed the hair."

Liam fights back a smile and turns around. "The heir," He corrects. "Yes, that man was the heir to the Rostov throne."

"You should go," Rosalie responds as Vincenzo crawls over the mattress and lowers himself with a painful sigh. Her attention falls to the bruises that decorate his upper body before she looks back up, "You should go to Russia, so they don't ever hurt us again."

Vincenzo props himself up on a forearm and looks to Liam. We always knew Russia might be a trip we take in the ever-nearing future, but he poses the question anyway. "And what do you say we do when we get there?"

We knew exactly what she was going to say, and she doesn't disappoint.

"Unload the clip."

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

a/n: next thursday, same time, same place. join us on instagram for a chapter discussion!!