Except What We Did

The acrid scent of gun oil permeates the area. The sound of metal scraping against metal echoes against the cement walls. The rough wool blankets tear at my skin as I shiver in the corner.

The rain was falling like it was trying to drown the world, or maybe it was just trying to drown us for what we’d done.

I watched him as he stood at the metal table, the fabric of his shirt clinging like a second skin. The black of his tattoos colors the white dress shirt with inky designs. The sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he worked meticulously to clean the gun, which had been in pieces on the table.

Vadik the Babayka.

My enemy. My accomplice. My lover.

“I feel your eyes, dusha moya,” he says roughly. Having been put in a chokehold had bruised his throat during the fight.

“You always do, m’anam.” The light Irish lilt to my words contrasts with his Russian bark.

He doesn’t look up as he reassembles the Makarov with ease. Click. Slide. The oil-slick metal catches the light from the single bulb hanging over the table. Every motion is deliberate. Every movement is lithe.

“We can still leave,” I beg, my voice too loud in the stillness of the room. “Mexico. The Caribbean. There are still places we could go.”’

He stills. Muscles tense. The seconds tick by before his jaw relaxes enough to speak. “We already did that, dusha moya. We left everything. Except this,” he says, tapping the now assembled pistol on the table.

“There is still us,” I say softly as I cross the room. My feet are silent as they pad across the room. The rustling of the wool blanket is the only sound as it drags across the floor, eventually falling off as I reach for him.

“Don’t,” he mutters.

I shift under his arm, forcing myself into his arms and onto the table in front of him.

“Too late.” I drag my nails down his chest, hard enough to leave red lines through the cotton.

His arm tightens around me, pulling me tightly against him. The habit being replaced by hunger as my legs lock around his waist. His mouth crashes into mine like he’s punishing us both.

He growls low, Russian curses vibrating against my lips, and shoves the Makarov aside with a clatter. It slides across the table but never out of reach, like a shadow we can’t shake.

I arch against him, breath hitching as his hand slides up my back, holding me steady.

“Vadik,” I breathe against his jaw. “Say it.”

His grip on my hip turns punishing, fingers digging in enough to bruise. “What do you want me to say, dusha moya? That I regret it? That I would take it back?”

I reach up, lacing my fingers into his hair and tugging to angle his face to me. “Say what we both know.”

He stills for a heartbeat, and I think for a moment that this time he will shove me away. Refuse this deadly game we play. Then he drags his mouth against my neck, teeth brushing over my skin as he speaks.

“Together we can overcome anything...”

The words hang there, unfinished for just a moment, and I sigh, finishing the phrase for him. “...except what we did.” The words fall like a confession, whisper-soft.

He groans, low and broken, and then surges up to claim my mouth again. This time is different, tender, and full of ache. Kisses linger, slowing until we’re forehead to forehead, breathing together.

“Your phone buzzed,” he says, voice low and edged with suspicion.

My stomach twists. The burner that had somehow survived the chaos. The one I swore was clean, not full of secrets. I don’t answer, instead tracing my fingertips down his jaw until he pulls away from the table, setting me down softly on the cold floor.

“Who was it, Róisín?”

The room feels smaller now, the single light casting shadows that reach out like claws. I cross the room and pull the phone out. My hands shake as Vadik comes to stand behind me. The screen lights up—unknown number. The voicemail icon blinks like the countdown to a bomb.

I hit play, speak on so he can hear. A voice growls, the thick Boston accent telling me exactly who it is.

“You stupid, stupid bitch,” my cousin Olivia’s voice screeches. “You should have killed all of them! They know, and they’re coming. The Irish, the Russians, every fucking connected guy in Boston is looking for you two! The new bosses? They teamed up. They want both of you dead. Dead, Rose! You and that stupid Babayka traitor are dead, and now so am I for warning you. I hope it was worth it.”

The phone clicks as I hang up, and silence fills the room, heavier than before.

Vadik’s face hardens, jaw ticking. “They found out.”

I nod, throat tight. Olivia, that stupid cailín, ruining her life to warn me when she knew what it would mean.

“It wasn’t enough, Vadik,” I whisper. “She’s right. My brother. The Pakhan. It wasn’t enough. It never would have been enough.”

A growl rumbles through Vadik as he wraps his arms around me, crushing me against his chest, burying his face in my hair. The tender kiss he places. When he lets go and marches back to the table, my tears fall with each step.

The racking of the gun crashes through the room, shattering the fear that had crept in. “Then we end it. Once and for all. Take down the ones who climbed over the bodies we left.”

I straighten my spine and turn, looking at the man who will fight until his soul leaves his body. For me.

I run to him, and he scoops me up, my legs wrapping around his waist as my arms go around his neck. “Together?”

His smile is grim, but real. “Always,” he murmurs in my ear.