The Silence After

The drive away from the stadium was a blur of motion. Roman drove, one hand on the wheel, the other pressing a handkerchief to his bleeding arm. Mina sat in the passenger seat, the gun resting in her lap.

They didn't speak until they hit the highway, the city lights of Los Angeles fading into a smear of amber behind them. The adrenaline was beginning to crash, leaving Mina feeling hollowed out.

She looked down at her hands. There was dried blood under her manicured nails.

"Who taught you?" Roman asked. His voice filled the quiet interior of the SUV. It wasn't the voice of a master speaking to a servant anymore. It was the voice of a soldier speaking to a soldier.

Mina didn't look at him. She stared out the window at the passing darkness. "My father."

"The Don?" Roman sounded skeptical. "He sells drugs and buys politicians. He doesn't fight."

"He didn't teach me himself," Mina said softly. "He hired the best. Mossad. ex-CIA. He told me that I was an investment worth millions. And you don't leave millions unguarded." She laughed, a bitter, dry sound. "Dance class was two hours. Combat training was four. Every single day since I was six."

"I thought I was buying a wife," Roman murmured. He glanced at her, his eyes lingering on the blood staining the white feathers of her bodice. "A trophy to put on the shelf."

"You did," Mina said. She wiped a spot of blood from her cheek with the back of her hand. "But trophies break. I don't."

Roman reached into the center console and pulled out a silver flask. He unscrewed the cap with his teeth and held it out to her.

Mina took it. The whiskey burned her throat, grounding her. It tasted like reality.

"The singing," Roman said. "Was that a lie too?"

Mina closed her eyes. The roar of the crowd echoed in her memory, fading fast. "No. The singing was real. It was the only time I wasn't fighting."

She felt a tear slide down her cheek. She didn't wipe this one away. She let it fall, a silent eulogy for Echo.

Roman reached out. His large, warm hand covered hers on the flask. He didn't squeeze. He didn't pull away. He just rested it there, a gesture of unexpected solidarity.

"Then we will find something else for you to fight for," Roman said.

Mina looked at him. The attraction hit her then—sharp and sudden. It wasn't love. It wasn't kindness. It was recognition. He was a monster, and he had just realized that she was one too.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"To the airport," Roman said, turning his eyes back to the road. "And then, home."

"Home," Mina tested the word. It felt strange.

"The war has started," Roman said, a grim smile touching his lips. "The Albanians made a mistake tonight. They tried to kill us."

"Us," Mina repeated.

She looked at the gun in her lap, then at the man beside her. She took another drink of the whiskey and settled back into the leather seat. The music was over. The curtain had fallen.

But the night was just beginning.

"Drive," she said.

Roman floored the accelerator, and the black SUV disappeared into the dark.