Chapter Text
“How are you doing?”
It's the first thing that Ilya says to him. No greeting. No small talk. It's almost refreshing, considering how many people have treated Shane with kid gloves ever since he hit the boards and felt a sickening crack in his wrist.
"Fine," he says, trying and failing to force a measure of lightness into his voice.
"You don't sound fine," Ilya says, blunt and worried all at once.
Exhaling a heavy sigh, Shane drops his head against the back of his couch.
"I'm just tired of it," he admits.
"It's been three days."
"Yeah, I know," Shane says bitterly, scowling down at the cast wrapped around his right arm, stopping just below his elbow. "I hate it."
He hears Ilya's understanding hum, even through the phone.
"It's just for a month, yes? Maybe it will go by quickly."
Shane can't imagine that it will, considering how frustratingly aware he's been of the thing since he came out of surgery.
"I can't play for another month after that," he mutters, picking at a thread on his sweatpants. "They'll let me skate but I can't even do stick work right now."
Two months on the IR. Two months of deconditioning and muscle atrophy and not being able to play with his team.
"I'm sorry, moyo lyubov."
Shane closes his eyes, letting Ilya's voice wash over him and calm the irritation that's been simmering beneath his skin for days. More than anything, he wishes that Ilya could be here, but he's on the tail end of a west coast road trip. Even though just talking to him isn't enough, Shane will take what he can get. Ilya, after all, is the only thing that can truly distract from his miserable state.
"You'll travel with the team?" Ilya says, though it's more of a statement than anything else.
The answer should be obvious. Even injured, Shane is still the captain of the Montreal Voyageurs. He has obligations to the team. There are things that he can do to support them even if he can't be on the ice during the team's upcoming ten-day road trip. Shane said all that and more, pleading his case not three hours ago when the general manager rang him up to break the news to him. It didn't make a difference.
"No," he says.
A long pause, then Ilya lets out a disbelieving laugh as if he thinks Shane might be joking. As if he'd ever joke about this.
"Of course you will."
Shane clenches his jaw as he feels the sting of tears in his eyes.
"I'm not," he says, swallowing down the lump in his throat. "Coach told the GM he didn't think I should come. They, uh... they said it was to let me rest but..."
Shane trails off, unwilling to say it. He can't keep going over it all in his head, how much things have changed since he came out to the team. It isn't that everyone has been terrible. A few players gave him support from day one, throwing themselves behind him and reinstating their faith in him as captain. Hayden and J.J. were especially great about it. Others didn't seem to care at all, treating Shane like they always did but not giving their full-throated support either. The majority of the team fell into this category, and Shane didn't let it bother him as long as they still played with him like he was one of them.
But a few members of the team didn't accept the news with open arms. Shane can't deny the hostility he feels, when their eyes burn into his back in the locker room. They're few in number, which keeps them mostly quiet. But every once in a while, they'll feel emboldened enough to mutter targeted insults under their breath when they know he can hear.
It doesn't help at all that Coach Theriault has made no secret of his disdain. He's kept his thoughts pretty much to himself, but his eyes give him away. Shane suspects that he would strip the 'C' from his chest if he thought he'd get away with it. The Voyageurs have let him play as usual, just as long as he doesn't stir up a PR mess. The last part has gone unspoken, but Shane got the message anyway. He can only imagine how pleased Theriault must be that he has a reason to leave him behind.
"Shane," Ilya says, his voice tight.
He knows all about his issues with the Voyageurs. Shane couldn't keep it from him if he tried. But even if he could lie to Ilya, he doesn't ever want to.
"I know."
Ilya lets out a few blistering curses in Russian, most of which Shane understands now.
"I thought about going to the cottage, but..." he trails off, the rest going unspoken.
But I don't want to go without you.
"Come to Boston."
Shane sits up, his breath catching as he takes a second to make sure he isn't hearing things.
"Boston?" he repeats.
"Yes, you can stay at my house," Ilya says, sounding remarkably casual.
"But... you don't get back from the road trip for another three days," Shane says, his brow furrowing.
He wants it, more than he's willing to admit. The idea of
"So you can be there waiting for me," he says, and Shane can imagine his shrug as he speaks. "Good welcoming home present, I think."
Shane's cheeks grow warm, a smile tugging at his lips when he hears the thinly veiled hope in Ilya's voice.
"Are you sure?" he asks, not wanting to be a distraction when the Bears have upcoming games against multiple division rivals.
"Come to Boston," Ilya repeats, his voice softening. "I want you there."
There's no real choice. Not when Ilya says such sweet things.
"Okay," Shane says, his smile growing wider.
"Okay," Ilya echoes, his voice betraying his own grin.
• • • • • • • • • •
It's strange, being in Ilya's home without him. It's entirely too quiet–too empty–without his magnetic presence filling the space. The bed is too large, and Shane tosses and turns the entire first night that he's there. The home gym is his only real distraction, but there's only so much yoga and electric bike cardio that he can do.
Shane can't even rely on Ilya to distract him, not that he expects it. He would never want to derail his game-day responsibilities.
His only solace is an expansive closet full of Ilya's clothes, and he takes full advantage. Shane doesn't bother asking for permission, knowing that Ilya would enthusiastically grant it and demand pictures at that. He simply uses whatever he wants, from Ilya's most comfortable pair of sweatpants to a worn, faded t-shirt that is perfectly soft against his skin. The blanket from the back of the couch is wrapped around him more often than not, and Shane finds himself breathing in the remnants of Ilya's scent there as he folds himself into a corner of the couch.
Montreal and Boston both have games that night, and they're both starting at the same time. Shane knows which one he should watch, but no one is there to judge him when he decides to turn on the game he wants to watch instead.
Watching Ilya play is a poor substitute for having him there, but Shane gets lost in it anyway.
Somewhere between the second and third periods, he dozes off. He can still hear the intermission discussion, but he doesn't follow what they're talking about. Every so often, he catches Ilya's name and he listens for a cluster of seconds before drifting away again. There's no telling how much time passes until he jerks awake, sitting up on the couch and blinking around blearily as he tries to figure out what woke him up. Muting the television in the middle of a face-off, Shane glances around with a confused furrow to his brow.
Then he hears it.
A series of odd thuds near the front of the house, like the something is impacting a thick sheet of glass again and again.
The windows, Shane thinks blearily, just before the unmistakable sound of shattering glass fills the air.
He rushes to shut the TV off when he hears overlapping voices and the tread of heavy footsteps. His eyes search his vicinity desperately, trying to find his phone as he hears the kitchen cabinets being thrown open and the drawers rifled through. Shane curses internally when he remembers that he left his phone plugged in upstairs, anticipating that Ilya would would want to talk after the game and not wanting a low battery to get in the way of that.
He flinches in the process of extricating himself from his blanket cocoon as the sound of shattering ceramic and glass fills the air.
They're destroying the kitchen, by the sound of it, and Shane can't fathom why.
As he rises to his feet slowly, one of the men barks something loudly and Shane realizes that they're speaking Russian. He wishes that he could understand, but he only just started learning. It can't be a coincidence, that they're breaking into this house out of all the ones in the area. Shane feels an overwhelming sense of relief that Ilya isn't here.
There are patio doors on either side of the room. Shane thinks it would be safer to slip out into the darkness before they notice him, but he can't just let Ilya's house be ransacked without calling someone to put a stop to it.
Making his way to the stairs is a much bigger risk, since it'll only bring him closer to the intruders, but he doesn't see another choice. Moving slowly on the balls of his feet, Shane hears them breaking more things and delighting in doing so, if their cruel laughter is any indication. Just as he reaches the corner just around the stairs, he stops in place and fortifies himself with a deep, steady breath.
Shane slowly rounds the corner and just as he puts his foot on the first step, a sudden shout startles him. His blood runs cold when he snaps his head to the side and sees a hulking figure not six feet away, dressed all in black and staring directly at him.
He runs.
Scrambling up the smooth stairs on socked feet, Shane does all he can not to slip. It slows him down just enough for the intruder to catch up, seizing his ankle and giving a hard tug that brings him crashing down. The breath is knocked from his lungs and every impact point on his body lights up with excruciating pain. Yet Shane doesn't give in, his hands gripping at the edge of a stair when the man tries to drag him down. He kicks out as hard as he can with his free leg, again and again until he strikes something solid. The grip on his ankle loosens just enough for him to pull it free.
Just as he pushes himself up, a hand grasps at his borrowed shirt and a ripping sound fills the air.
Shane is flipped to his back before he can blink, a meaty fist striking his cheek and making his vision grow dark for a handful of seconds. Shane doesn't let it throw him off for long. If nothing else, he can take a fucking hit. He regains his senses just as the man rears back to hit him again, bringing both legs up and planting his feet on his chest to shove as hard as he can. Wasting no time on watching his graceless tumble down the stairs, Shane clambers to his feet just as a loud crack fills the air and the glass barrier lining the stairs shatters less than a foot away from him.
A gunshot, Shane thinks wildly, hurling himself up the steps.
More shots ring out, one after the next, chasing him all the way up. He feels a fiery eruption of pain in his arm just beneath his shoulder but Shane doesn't dare let it slow him down, throwing himself around a corner and out of sight. He can hear them pursuing him but he doesn't look back, sprinting to Ilya's bedroom on sheer adrenaline. Shoving the thick wooden door closed and locking it behind him, he darts for the nightstand and unplugs his phone with trembling hands. Something warm and thick trickles down his arm and Shane knows that it's blood.
Because he got shot.
He got shot.
Biting down hard on his lip to keep a sob from slipping out, he scrubs the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand and tries to dial three simple numbers.
The intruders are shouting, all of them on the upper level now. Searching for him.
Shane can't let himself wonder what will happen if they find him. He knows the answer already.
"9-1-1, what's the address of your emergency?"
He freezes, his mind far too scrambled by panic and pain to answer.
"Hello?"
"I-I don't know," Shane says, realizing that he's shivering violently as he sinks to the floor, hidden on the other side of the bed from the door.
"Alright, sir, can you give me your name?" the woman asks.
"Shane."
He can't tell them his full name. He isn't supposed to be here.
"Okay, Shane, can you tell me what's going on?"
"They broke in," he says, his voice just barely above a whisper.
"Do you know who broke in?"
"No."
"Is it your house?"
Shane shakes his head, his body aching with the violence of his tremors.
"I'm visiting."
"I'm trying to track your location. Do you remember a street name, Shane?"
Shane closes his eyes, trying to remember.
"Beacon Street, I think."
"Good, that's good," the dispatcher says.
There's a long pause, then...
"2886 Beacon Street?"
"Yes," Shane breathes, nodding his head quickly.
"It looks like we already have units dispatched to that address," she says.
He doesn't know how that's possible. No one else lives anywhere close to Ilya's house. Who else could have called?
"The nearest officers were alerted by the security company at your address. It looks like an alarm was activated when the intruders broke in."
Shane tips his head back to rest on the bark of the tree, just now remembering the instructions Ilya gave him for the system. He was strict about it, making sure that Shane could recite it all back to him more than once. It felt comforting then, knowing that he was concerned about Shane's safety almost to the point of obsessive. Now, it feels more like his saving grace. Ilya well and truly looking out for him from thousands of miles away.
"I forgot about that."
"That's okay, Shane. Now, this is very important. I need you to tell me where you are on the property so that I can alert the responding units to your location."
"In the master bedroom," Shane says, his voice somehow sounding very far away to his own ears. "Upstairs."
Just as he says it, there's a loud thud and the door rattles in its frame. He flinches, his eyes squeezing shut.
"They know I'm in here."
It's harder to breathe, now, and he has the sudden, awful thought that he may have been shot in the chest too. Did they hit a lung? Or his heart? He can't feel any pain there, but he can't feel the burning in his arm either.
He can't feel much of anything, Shane realizes, as if his entire body has gone numb.
"How many of them are there?"
"Three, I think," is all he can bring himself to say as another loud thud hits the door, and another and another and another. "Maybe four."
It feels like the world is spinning around him, icy claws of panic sinking in deeper and deeper with every second that brings him closer to being found.
"Shane? Are you okay?" the tinny voice of the dispatcher sounds.
He reaches for his phone where it slipped from his grip, his hand closing around it just as he hears multiple muffled cracks.
More gunshots, but further away.
The kicking stops.
"Shane?" the woman calls.
"'M here," he manages to say. "They're shooting again."
"Again? Did they shoot at you before?"
"Yeah, they did," he says, feeling as if he's slurring his words with his tongue a heavy weight in his mouth.
"Are you hurt?"
He nods, his vision blurring at the edges as he fights to breathe through the pressure in his chest. Shane leans his head against the side of the bed, letting his eyes flutter closed.
"Tell Ilya I love him, and I'm sorry."
It's the last thing he says before slipping into blissful unconsciousness.
• • • • • • • • • •
"And you have no idea who these men were?"
Shane shakes his head, staring down at the thin blanket covering his legs. He wishes that he were anywhere else but this hospital, with the door to his room wide open. He feels like there's a spotlight shining on him, letting anyone who passes by see him in a hospital gown being questioned by a Boston police officer who seems hellbent on making him confess to some imagined crime.
"Can I ask what you're doing in Boston, Mr. Hollander?" the man says, his voice bordering on interrogative.
Shane flinches at the sound of his name. He doesn't have to wonder if the officer recognizes him. There's been a knowing look in his eyes since the moment he stepped through the door and introduced himself.
"Visiting a friend," Shane says for what feels like the thousandth time.
A pause, and the officer lets out a quiet huff.
"A friend, huh?"
Shane lifts his head, frowning at the mocking note in the man's voice.
"Yes," he says, trying to keep his voice from wavering. "When can I leave?"
"Soon enough," the officer says dismissively. "Why do you think your friend's house was targeted?"
"I don't know," Shane sighs, feeling drained of all energy. "You'll have to ask the people who broke into it."
"I'm asking you."
"And I'm telling you that I don't know."
He's never been so short with an authority figure, but he really just wants to fucking leave. There's no reason to keep him there, as far as Shane is concerned. His vitals have been normal for well over an hour and there's a pristine white bandage wrapped around his upper left arm where one of the bullets grazed him. It's the worst of his wounds, aside from the dark bruise on his cheek. Everything else that he experienced came down to traumatic shock, according to the doctor that examined him, leaving Shane with a pounding headache and a driving need to get the fuck out of here.
The longer he's there, the greater the risk of being recognized by someone who isn't bound by confidentiality laws.
The officer opens his mouth but before he can ask another question, they heard the rapid sound of approaching footsteps and a familiar head of dark brown curls comes through the doorway. Shane blinks with surprise, unable to wrap his mind around Svetlana approaching his bed with a look of utter relief, dropping a small backpack on a nearby chair. She doesn't say a word, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and hugging him gently, paying no attention to the officer watching them.
"You're okay?" Svetlana demands, drawing back to look him over.
"Yeah," Shane nods, still stunned by her presence.
"Are they keeping you for the night?"
He shakes his head and she looks satisfied at that, finally turning her attention to the officer.
"Have you told him everything?" Svetlana says, her question directed at Shane even as she stares the man down unflinchingly.
"Yeah, I have," Shane says. "More than once, actually."
"Ma'am. I'm going to have to ask you to step out while I continue questioning my witness."
Svetlana doesn't look cowed in the slightest, crossing the room to pull a paper towel from a dispenser on the wall. Snatching the pen from the officer's hand, she bends over the counter to scrawl something on the paper towel.
"This is my address and my phone number," she says, handing both the pen and the paper towel to the officer. "If you have more questions, you will call me and set up a time to come. I'm taking Shane home to rest now."
Svetlana walks back to his side, pressing the call button before the officer can utter another word of protest.
"Show up without calling and I'll have to contact the police commissioner," she says casually, folding her arms over her chest. "I believe he's quite close with my father, Sergei Vetrov. They meet for dinner every time he is in town."
Shane stays silent, awestruck at how quickly she managed to gain the upper hand. Though they've met a handful of times, this is the first time it's been just the two of them without Ilya as a buffer. It's easy to see, now, why Ilya is so deeply attached to her. She's incredible.
"Don't leave town," the officer spits in Shane's direction, hostility clear in his glare.
Without another word, he spins on the spot and marches swiftly from the room.
"Go fuck yourself," Svetlana mutters before turning her attention back to Shane.
"I know that one," he says, dropping back to slump against the pillows.
She lets out a quiet laugh.
"Of course you do. Look at your teacher."
Shane's mouth twitches into a small smile but it doesn't last very long.
"I brought clothes for you," Svetlana says, lifting the backpack from the chair. "You can't go back to Ilya's house for now. They're keeping it closed off."
"Does he know?"
She looks up at him, her eyes heavy now. Reaching out, she cups his cheek gently.
"Who do you think sent me here?"
Shane's heart sinks, even though he suspected that was the case.
"Is he...?"
"Taking the next flight out, of course," Svetlana says, unzipping the bag
"He has another game," Shane protests.
Lifting her eyes to fix on him, she gives him a pointed look.
"You really think that he cares about that right now?"
Shane doesn't know what to say to that, watching as she pulls a pair of sweatpants and a Boston Bears sweatshirt from the bag. He takes it, narrowing his eyes at Svetlana as she blinks innocently back at him.
"You're just like him."
"I don't know what you mean," Svetlana says as a nurse finally walks into the room.
From there, it's a blur of changing out of the hospital gown and getting discharged. They insist on taking him out in a wheelchair, must to his displeasure, and Shane is all too eager to ditch the thing when they reach Svetlana's car. Much like Ilya, she drives something sleek and expensive. The luxury car fits her perfectly.
"Do you know anything about what happened?" Shane asks as they slowly pull out of the hospital parking lot.
Pressing her lips in a thin line, Svetlana shakes her head slowly.
"Ilya will know more," she says confidently.
Shane suspects the same, but it isn't a comforting thought. There's no doubt in his mind that Ilya is putting all of the blame on himself, and he dreads the state he'll be in by the time he lands in Boston.
• • • • • • • • • •
He doesn't know how long he sleeps, taking nearly a minute to orient himself to Svetlana's guest room when he awakens. The bed is plenty comfortable. Shane can attest to that, having fallen into a deep slumber not long after his head hit the pillow. He can't even bring himself to move now, his eyes tracing over the abstract art on the wall. Shane thinks that there are things he should be doing. Calls he should be making. To his parents, or Hayden, or maybe even the management team for the Voyageurs.
How he'll explain any of this, he doesn't know.
All he can do is lay there, his mind drifting without falling back asleep. His broken wrist aches dully and the wound beneath the bandage on his other arm is burning fiercely, not to mention the throbbing in his cheek. There are bottles of medicine somewhere. Pain relievers and antibiotics that Svetlana took it upon herself to manage. Shane didn't argue, relieved to let someone else take over for a while.
He's not entirely sure that the shock has worn off.
The doctor told him that it might take time for his equilibrium to return, not just physically but emotionally and mentally. Shane understands what she meant now. He's never felt quite so unmoored, drifting in a haze of his own mind as time passes slowly, or quickly, or not at all.
He really doesn't know.
It's only the muffled sound of voices that breaks through his endless daze, and he only realizes that there are tears slipping from his eyes when he tastes the salt on his tongue. Shane can't even bring himself to wipe them away, the effort seeming more challenging than he wants to admit.
A familiar voice reaches him, quiet as it is, and Shane's heart flutters at the sound.
He forces himself to move, pushing the plush covers away and carefully finding his feet as every fiber of his being longs for Ilya. His body is still weighed down by exhaustion, physical and mental. It takes time to find his balance, and Shane resents the loss of his usual socks as he shuffles towards the door. They're probably somewhere in an evidence bag with everything else he'd been wearing.
The reminder makes his blood run cold and he hesitates with his hand on the doorknob, resting his forehead against the smooth wood and forcing himself to breathe through the sudden claws of panic that sink in.
He isn't there anymore.
He's safe.
Ilya is here.
The voices fall silent as he finally talks himself into opening the door, the creak of the hinges alerting any other occupants of the apartment.
He hears the scrape of chair legs over hardwood floor as he steps into the hallway, his hand braced on the wall to keep him upright with lingering imbalance keeping him unsteady on his feet. Shane is too focused simply walking to hear the sound of approaching footsteps until movement catches his attention, his eyes lifting from the ground just as Ilya turns the corner into the hallway.
Anguish quickly takes root in his gaze, his eyes underlined by bruise-like circles and his skin pale with stress.
Shane can only reach out a trembling hand, struck by the sudden, inexorable need to touch. Ilya moves quickly, closing the distance between them in the blink of an eye. His hands are gentle as he gathers Shane close with a choked noise. It's all too easy to let Ilya take his weight, slumping into him with his face buried in his shoulder and his hands gripping at his soft shirt. Shane has never felt so fragile, and it's only Ilya's embrace that seems to hold him together now.
"Forgive me," Ilya whispers into his hair, cradling him close as if he's something precious to hold. "Please forgive me."
"It's not your fault," Shane says, breathing him in.
"I brought you here," he says miserably.
Shane pulls back just enough to look in his eyes, shaking his head.
"You couldn't have known."
Ilya doesn't look comforted by that, his hand lifting and his thumb carefully tracing the bruise on his cheek.
"I was... I thought..." he says, his voice thin and shaky. "I was called by police and they told me about break in but nothing about you. I thought..."
It's clear what Ilya thought. His eyes are hollow and rimmed with red, betraying every horrible conclusion he must have drawn. Shane reaches up to take his hand, guiding it to rest over his heart. To feel it still beating, strong as ever.
"I'm okay."
Ilya's eyes are bright with unshed tears now, flitting over Shane as if taking in every inch of him. His eyes catch on the white bandage, his mouth twitching into a frown.
"Your arm–"
"It's nothing. I'm okay, Ilya."
Ilya leans in, pressing the gentlest of kisses to the bruise on his cheek. Shane's eyes flutter closed, his hands gripping at Ilya's shoulders to keep himself upright. The barest, most delicate brush of lips over his own warms him from the inside, chasing away the lingering chill.
"Do you need more rest, solnyshko?" Ilya murmurs.
"No," he says, refusing to separate from him even if it's to sleep.
Taking his hand, Ilya guides him out to the main area of Svetlana's apartment. She's in the kitchen, glancing over her shoulder as they shuffle past. Shane doesn't protest as Ilya nudges him onto the couch, letting him fuss as much as he needs to. If their roles were reversed, he knows that he would be a million times worse.
"Good?" Ilya asks once he tucks a blanket around him, his eyes wide and imploring, silently begging for Shane to give him something else to do.
Nodding his head, Shane reaches a hand out and tugs on his shirt until Ilya gets the message and drops onto the couch beside him. Tipping over, he tucks his face into Ilya's side and lets his tension drain away. With a slow, trembling exhale, Ilya relaxes beneath him and his hand slides into Shane's hair. They don't say anything at all, and minutes pass like that until Svetlana rounds the couch with a cup in either hand. Shane gets his first, wrapping his hands around the warm cup and breathing in the scent of the tea.
"Thank you," he says, earning a smile from her.
Ilya has coffee, and he takes a long drink as he nudges Svetlana's leg with his foot in silent gratitude. Shane settles back against his side, sipping slowly at the light, herbal tea.
"Is there anything in the news? About the break-in?" Shane asks after a few minutes.
"Just the basic details," Svetlana answers, curled up in an armchair with her own cup.
She exchanges a glance with Shane, understanding his concern.
"The officer at the hospital recognized me," he explains to Ilya. "He knew that I was at your house."
"I know," Ilya says, a note of displeasure in his voice.
Svetlana must have told him, then. She undoubtedly would have mentioned the undercurrent of hostility that the officer had towards Shane.
"They arrested them, right? The men who did it?"
Ilya stiffens beneath him and Svetlana looks down, not meeting Shane's eyes. Sitting up, he looks at Ilya warily.
"What is it?"
As he returns his gaze, Shane can see the caution in his eyes.
"They were not arrested," Ilya says after a moment, his voice quiet. "They tried to escape and shot at police."
Shane remembers it now. The gunshots he heard just before he lost consciousness.
"They're dead."
It isn't a question. He just knows.
Shane looks at Ilya, whose jaw is clenched tightly as he stares down at his cup. He can't imagine how it must feel. If it were his home, his safe space, he's not too sure he'd ever feel safe going back.
"I'm sorry."
Ilya looks up at him, a furrow to his brow and confusion in his eyes.
"Sorry?"
"Someone died in your house. That can't be easy."
He stares at Shane for a long few seconds before letting out a heavy sigh, shaking his head as he sets his cup down on the coffee table. Straightening up, Ilya carefully reaches out to gently grip his chin and looks directly in his eyes.
"I don't give a shit about fucking bastards that died in my home," he says, a hard edge to his voice. "They hurt you. They are dead now. Is how it should be."
Shane stares at him, feeling a molten tug low in his belly. He's hyperaware of Svetlana's eyes on them, and of everything that's happened in the last twelve or so hours. It isn't the time to be tempted by the urge to climb into Ilya's lap. But his thoughts must show, somehow, because Ilya tips his head to the side with a knowing glint in his eyes.
"Do the police know who they were?" Shane asks, trying to distract from his own want.
"No," Ilya says after a moment, releasing his chin just to brush his thumb gently over his jaw.
"Probably stupid American criminals, thinking they could find something valuable in a big house," Svetlana says dismissively.
Shane shakes his head, setting his cup down next to Ilya's.
"They were Russian."
The room grows still and silent, as if all of the air was sucked out of it in the wake of his words. Shane glances from Ilya to Svetlana and back, watching as the realization sinks in for both of them.
"Are you certain?" Svetlana finally asks.
Shane nods slowly, feeling like he's missing out on something significant.
"I heard them talking. I couldn't understand what they were saying, but I know it was Russian. And maybe they were looking for something, but it seemed like they cared more about breaking stuff," he says, recalling all that he can. "I'm pretty sure all of your dishes are gone. Maybe more. I don't know."
Ilya looks murderous, his jaw tight as he turns his head to look at Svetlana.
"Alexei."
Shane knows that name. Ilya's brother. He knows that Ilya swore never to speak to him again, just as he swore never to return to Russia again. He also knows that Ilya used to send him money, but that arrangement ended the day of their father's funeral.
"Surely not," Svetlana says with a frown.
"It is. I know it," Ilya says, barely restrained fury in his voice.
"Why?"
They both look at Shane, but he's only looking at Ilya. It seems impossible to him, that one brother could hate another so much that he would send someone to ransack his home all the way across the world. What if Ilya had been there? Would Alexei have wanted him dead? Is that why the men had guns?
Shane's blood turns to ice at the thought.
"To fuck with me," Ilya says, lifting his shoulder in a shrug meant to be casual. "To steal what I won't give."
He isn't look at Shane now. His eyes are fixed on Svetlana and she's staring back at him with equal intensity. Shane feels like there is an entirely silent conversation happening between them.
"Your father has contacts in Russia, yes?" Ilya finally says.
She nods slowly, no trace of surprise in her face as if she was expecting the question.
"You know he does."
Ilya rises from the couch in an instant and Shane has to steady himself, watching with wide eyes as he paces and spits out in rapid fire Russian that he has no hope of understanding. Svetlana responds just as quickly, her eyes blazing as she watches him too. It takes a few moments of this for Shane to finally understand what Ilya was asking of her, even if he doesn't know what they're saying now. What kind of plans they must be making.
"Ilya."
They both stop talking, and Ilya's eyes fix on Shane even as he paces, reminding him of the caged tigers at the zoo. Hungry for something they can't have. Waiting for a singular mistake. Waiting to strike, wrath burning in his gaze. Shane thinks that it should bother him. Maybe even scare him.
It doesn't.
"He's your brother," he says, sounding the words out carefully.
"Not anymore," Ilya says shortly.
Shane has no answer to that. He can understand Ilya's rage. That doesn't mean he has to agree with whatever he intends to do.
His thoughts must show because Ilya sighs, dropping his chin and shaking his head. Svetlana's face is carefully blank, when Shane glances at her. She doesn't meet his eyes, her eyes fixed on her phone as she scrolls through it.
"You think that he won't do it again? You think it won't be worse?" Ilya says, lifting his eyes to look at Shane again.
Worse.
Worse is unthinkable. Worse is Ilya hurt, or dead.
Shane doesn't have to ask to know that his own death is equally Ilya's worst nightmare.
Before he can dwell on the thought, Svetlana inhales a quiet gasp that draws their attention to her. She's still staring down at her phone, but her eyes are round and the color is rapidly draining from her face.
"What is it?" Ilya asks.
Her eyes lift slowly, fixing on Shane instead of Ilya. It takes only a matter of seconds to register the panic in her gaze, and the unspoken apology that chases it. Somehow, Shane knows what is coming before she says a single word. Maybe he braced himself for it hours ago, when he woke up in the hospital and no one needed an introduction to know his name.
"Svetlana," Ilya says, his patience growing thin.
"I'm sorry," she says, her voice equal parts horrified and infuriated. "I'm so sorry."
"What happened?" Ilya demands.
She looks down at her phone again, hesitating before holding it out. Ilya starts towards her, ready to take it, but Shane doesn't need to see what's there to know.
"It leaked," he says, his voice distant to the sudden roaring in his ears. "Everyone knows."
Ilya's eyes snap to him but he can't look back. He's frozen in place, staring at nothing at all, unsure if he's even breathing.
This day was always going to come, Shane knows that.
He just wishes they had a little more time.