He tipped back the last of the vodka. It was hot and acidic, but it made him focus on the ache in his throat rather than his chest. Any distraction from the broken thing in his chest was a welcome one.

As he waited for the car that would take him to his new life, he stared at his passport.

If he had the money, he would have changed his name for Raelynn. It would've made him feel more American; more compatible with her. Choosing something like Jake or Sebastian would've completed their circus show. She was the circus master, and he was the elephant balancing on a ball to impress the crowd.

A big, wide, strong bastard. A pet that Raelynn trained well. A fool.

He tripped over some bottles on his way to the bathroom. He had to wash off the scent of failure, the dried blood off his knuckles, the taste of Raelynn from when they kissed many days ago.

The alcohol may have brought a soothing new burn to his chest, but it hadn't been able to bleach her from his mouth. He still tasted her strawberry lipstick, still felt her sassy tongue losing the battle against his.

He slammed his fists onto the tiles, making his bruised fists ache and a crack appear on the wall.

Raelynn.

He should find her. He should rip America apart until he found her and made her pay.

But he couldn't, because the sweet poison that snake injected into him could drug Satan himself.

There was a knock at the door. His ride to Russia had arrived.

He toweled off and went through his nearly empty closet. Everything in there was casual– T-shirts and flannels he wore to work. When he came across the matching Christmas sweater Raelynn got him, he tore it off the hanger and tossed it at the floor.

Shoved into the back of his closet was a single button-down shirt he used for rare occasions like date nights. He never liked wearing it. It reminded him of the past; suited men and beautiful women discussing business as they sipped on fine alcohol.

He pulled the shirt on. It was a little tight since it was years old, but at least his slacks fit well. He tied his scuffed dress shoes, ran a bruised hand through his hair, and stared at the broken mirror. Since the shirt was white, his tattoos were stark against it.

There was no need to hide them. Russia would welcome the skin that told more than his dead eyes, the knuckles thirsted for blood although they bled, the rage that was cooking in his gut.

He picked up his gun. It was disturbing how natural it felt in his hand, although it had been years since he was taught how to shoot.

He couldn't take it to the airport, but he had to discard of it somewhere safe. Shoving it into his waistband, he walked to the living room and looked over the sea of despair.

Glass, plastic, wood, memories.

He pocketed Raelynn's letter. It would serve as the fuel that would keep him burning forever.

Then, he opened the door.

"Maksim," his uncle Sebastian greeted. His hair was still grey, one tooth still golden, face still wrinkled from the laughs and scowls of life.

He was surprised his father sent Sebastian and not a goon.

"You have gotten..."

Angrier.

"Bigger. You have been eating well, I see."

It amused Maksim that he pretended like his father didn't keep tabs on him for seven years.

"Is the jet ready?" Maksim asked in Russian, avoiding English.

Your accent embarrasses me.

He slammed the door shut behind him.

"Ah, yes. Come. Your father is waiting."

Maksim stared at the SUV. It had leather interior, diamond-encrusted wheel, bullet-proof windows. This was his first look at wealth in a long time. It was sitting there, shiny and obnoxious, but all Maksim could see was the cup noodles he ate with Raelynn when groceries had to wait a few more days.

His blind poverty, his rich hopes.

He thought he was the king of the world with Raelynn beside him, but he had only been the jester.

He slipped into the passenger seat. It smelled clean, not of gas like his rusty old car. The leather was smooth under his hands, which became dry and callous over the time he spent working construction.

They took off for the airport. Maksim answered his uncle's questions curtly, not in the mood for conversation. They rushed through security, and then Maksim was staring out the window of a million-dollar yet. He was surrounded by wealth, but felt like a miserable bastard.

The eon-old dilemma.

"Can I get you anything?" one flight attendant asked.

"Vodka," Maksim answered, avoiding her eyes because they brown.

Give me Vodka to bleach the snake from my mind.

"Did you eat yet?" his uncle intervened.

"What am I, fucking twelve? Get me a drink and hop off my balls." He flicked his hand, dismissing both of them.

As he drank, he enjoyed the pressure caused by their altitude. It was messing with his head, which was just what he needed.

The flight from Phoenix, Arizona to Moscow, Russia took an excruciating 30 hours. They took three stops to refuel, and Maksim was drunk through most of it. Death or rehab were definitely in his near future.

He was still tipsy when they drove through Moscow and to his family's estate. The place was still as glamorous as he remembered. One hundred times the size of his apartment, timeless in its design, looking like paradise from the outside but stocked with two underground torture chambers.

Home.

The car passed an army of soldiers and came to a stop at the entrance, where his father was waiting.

Maksim pushed the door open and stared at the man he hadn't seen in years. He looked older and shorter. Maybe Sebastian was right in saying that Maksim got taller.

"You smell like a brewery, Maksim."

"He's been drinking like a fish," Sebastian laughed.

"I'll take over the money laundering operations," Maksim interjected. He wasn't here to reunite with his family. He only needed something to lose his head in; numbers, war, alcohol.

"You just got here. Come and rest. You look tired. I do not want to share my grey hair with my sons."

"No. I'm going to work right away."

His father sighed. "You know that most of the money laundering happens overseas. Do not tell me you want to leave already."

"I'll head out for the UK next week. I'm only here for business. Tell my brothers I said hello, and to fuck off."

He undid the top button of his shirt as he walked into the estate. The place was too big. He didn't mind in his childhood and teenage years, but now it was a cold labyrinth.

He picked out a random guest room. It had a king bed that wouldn't creak from how hard he fucked a female, walls that wouldn't dent as he held her up and nailed his cock into her, bullet-proof windows that wouldn't rattle from how loud she screamed.

Worst of all, the room had heating that battled Russia's bitter cold. He would have no reason to hold her close and protect her from the cold.

He ripped his knuckles open with a punch to the nearest mirror.

Damn you, Raelynn. Damn you to the depths of the hell you crawled out of.

– • –

Beginning of part 7. Raelynn's POV

"Thank you again."

"It's been a damn month. Stop thanking me," Tiffany replied. "Here, drive to the supermarket and get groceries. I'll do laundry."

Tiffany wasn't really her sister, but it felt like it. They grew up together, only separating over college. Tiffany was more than happy to welcome her for a few weeks, although she was skeptical over the details Raelynn refused to give.

There was no way she would admit that her ex-boyfriend was in the mafia.

"I promise I'll pay you back," Raelynn said.

She would get a job. It would be a shitty one, since she didn't finish her degree and had a criminal record. It didn't matter, though. She would pay Tiffany back for her kindness even if she had to scrub toilets for life.

"Go, Rae. Don't forget the toilet paper!"

Raelynn slipped into the car and drove a few blocks. She yawned and rubbed her eyes. It had been a month, and her insomnia was eating her alive.

She stopped at a red light and ran a hand down her face.

"Shit!"

A teenager holding two buckets slipped and was splattered with red paint.

Raelynn became pure ice.

Red. Dripping, consuming, spreading.

She pressed her hands onto her father's chest. She ignored the red bullet hole in his forehead, desperate to stop the blood that was pouring out.

She was screaming. This was wrong. Seconds ago, she had been smiling.

Her daddy told her he was proud of her. She nearly flunked senior year, but she got her shit together over the last five months of school and made it. They went to graduation together. He brought her flowers; white lilies that matched her graduation gown.

But the lilies turned red, and so did her gown.

She pressed her hands harder, but the red kept coming.

Unable to breathe, she took her seatbelt off and pushed the car door open. Reality and memories braided into one. Vomit surged up her throat, cars honked, and footsteps came closer.

Maksim stomped on Snake's head once, twice, a dozen times until the man's skull became tissue and blood.

The red was back to haunt her.

– • –

"Relax. That's alright, breathe."

Raelynn sat up, disoriented but grateful that there were no more memories or overwhelmed senses.

She must have passed out and got brought to the hospital.

The nurse asked her a series of questions. Raelynn answered while dragging stressed hands through her hair. Without any health insurance, she would have to pay for this visit out-of-pocket.

"You mostly look alright. The baby, too. What you need to look out for is–"

Her vision blurred, and she could feel another episode creep up the corners of her eyes.

Baby.

She raised her hands. "There's no baby. I'm," she pressed a hand to her chest. "I'm on birth control."

The nurse looked at her sadly. "I have your file right here. The blood results..."

Throwing her legs over the bed, Raelynn palmed her thighs and focused on exhaling.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Debt, criminal records, red, death, PTSD, babies, Maksim.

She passed out again.