Page 119 of Graves

He stands right next to Damian and greets me with a mischievous grin, one corner of his mouth lifted as he gives me a cool nod.

His dark brown hair is tied back, a few rebellious strands tucked behind his ears. Like Damian, he’s wearing a dark suit, but the top buttons of his anthracite shirt are done up.

I’m taken aback to see Damian and Nikos standing side by side. As far as I know, they can’t stand each other. Olena sending them together to the container depot was probably just her way of fucking with them—she loves bossing the guys around. In the end, they’re probably all just glad they made it out alive.

“Now that we’re all here,” a deep voice says.

A chill runs down my spine as I hear Kosta. Only when I step slightly to the side and look past Levi do I see Nikos’s cousin sitting behind the desk.

He’s in his mid-thirties and a born leader. His gelled-back black hair and sharp, clean-shaven face radiate the kind of power I usually only associate with my father.

He was my age when his father died and he took over as head of the family. The fact that he’s here in person means this is more serious than I thought.

“Well then,” he continues. “How should we begin?”

The question is directed at the five Japanese men on the other side of the room. An older man and one around Kosta’s age sit on chairs, while three enforcers stand behind them. All three have the same dangerous energy as Damian.

The old Japanese man says something to his younger partner—I don’t think it’s his son. The risk of a shootout here is too high, but neither of them appears intimidated or interested in conflict. Like Kosta, they ignore the burning rage coming from their subordinates.

When the younger one tries to translate what the old man said into English, I step forward. They obviously understand and speak English, but in situations like this they gratefully accept my offer to translate.

“What happened at the depot last Saturday shocked us as well,” I translate the old man’s words. “After a thorough investigation, we’ve concluded that a third party must have been present. Someone who wants to play the Mori-kai and the Rashkov-Drakos family against each other.”

“Bullshit!” Nikos scoffs. “We were there! We saw who was shooting! It was a Japanese guy!”

“A Japanese guy or an Asian guy?” I ask on behalf of the younger Japanese man.

Nikos glares at me, his green eyes flashing.

“Nikos?” Kosta asks, his voice razor-sharp. “Japanese or Asian?”

“How the hell should I know!” Nikos snaps, throwing his arms up. “They all look the same!”

One of the Japanese enforcers steps forward and growls something in Japanese, flashing the gun at his belt.

“What?” Nikos challenges. “You wanna kill me now? What did he say, Koh?”

“He called you a racist.”

“Excuse me? How dare you? That’s my brother!” Nikos points at me like that somehow makes it better.

I sigh and turn back to the Japanese. “He’s just a distant cousin,” I apologize, which makes Ryū Mori smirk.

This meeting has been going on for only five minutes, painfully reminding me why I left the family business. The tension in the room is already too much for me. But I promised Levi. I don’t want to let him down, so I do what I came here for and play translator.

As much as I love the guys and feel connected to the family, this isn’t the life I want. Which inevitably leads me back to the question of whether my current situation matches what I actually want.

It’s probably fate’s sick sense of humor that all I can think about lately is Aran. The man has messed with my head and I can’t seem to shake him. Physically yes, but he’s lodged himself in my thoughts and pushes his way in at every opportunity. Even now, while I’m mediating between two families.

It hurts that he pushed me away after the concert. Does he really expect me to believe he doesn’t care about me anymore? He’s only lying to himself. Even I can see that it’s dragging him into a darkness he won’t be able to escape sooner or later.

After he left me standing on the street last Sunday—not that I asked for anything else—things between us have only gotten more complicated every day.

I don’t know what Aran is taking, but it’s making him indifferent—toward me and especially toward himself.

Today is Thursday, and we’ve run into each other six times in the last four days. Each time it felt like Aran had taken another step down into his own personal hell. I see the pain that holds him like a straitjacket and the self-directed rage when he thinks no one is watching—pacing like a caged animal and punching his own wrist over and over.

I tried it myself and can barely believe what he puts himself through every day. A single punch doesn’t cause much pain, but he hits the same spot twenty or thirty times. It’s a numbing impulse that rolls through the whole body and lingers like an aftershock.