THE DEAL THAT WAS NEVER HIS

ZACH

Some people are born into stories.

Their lives are written for them in blood and inheritance.

Others, like me, are born on the margins. No name. No future. No safety net.

Just ink-stained hands and a lifetime of trying not to be invisible. But lately, things don’t feel as quiet as they used to. And when the past starts circling, it doesn’t knock. It breaks the door down.

I should’ve known something was off when Milo showed up unannounced.

He’s not exactly the “pop in and say hey” type. The last time I saw him, he was yelling at a dealer in an alley while I stood behind him, holding a crowbar in case things went sideways. We don’t have a friendship. We have a history.

“Nice place,” he mutters, stepping inside like it’s his.

“It’s not,” I say, shutting the door behind him.

“It’s mine. And you weren’t invited.”

He shrugs.

“Word is, someone’s looking for you.”

I freeze.

“That supposed to scare me?”

He laughs.

 “Nah. But it should make you curious.”

I lean against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. “Talk.”

“They’re not cops. Not local. Dressed sharp. Accent. Russian maybe, or Eastern Euro. Asking around about a kid from the system. You.”

I keep my expression still, but something cold twists in my gut.

“I don’t have anything they’d want.”

“Apparently, you’ve got a last name.”

I narrow my eyes. “No, I don’t.”

“Yeah, well, they think you do.”

I laugh, bitter.

“And what’s this magical name they think belongs to me?”

He pulls out a crumpled piece of paper from his back pocket and tosses it on the table.

I unfold it slowly.

A photo of me, fifteen maybe, grainy, probably pulled from some old state file. Underneath, printed in thick black font: Subject of Interest – ZAKHAR VERONIN.

I stare at the name like it’s a joke.

It isn’t.

“That’s not me.”

“Isn’t it?” Milo asks. “Because I gotta say… if someone’s using that many resources to track down a nobody from the group home circuit, maybe you’re not a nobody.”

He leaves after that. No goodbyes. Just a shrug and a warning: Keep your head down.

Like that’s ever worked for me.

I sit alone at my table for a long time, the paper still in front of me. My name, not Zach Pierce but Zakhar fucking Veronin, burning into my retinas.

I’ve never heard of the Veronin family. Doesn’t matter. Name changes in foster care aren’t rare. But this one? This one feels… intentional. Like I’ve been someone else this whole time, and only now the story’s catching up.

I think about calling Alana. But what would I say?

Hey, remember that guy you think you know? Turns out, I might be someone else entirely. Surprise.

No. I’m not dragging her into this.

But she’ll see the shift in me. She always does.

When she shows up that night in another sundress, this time red, tight at the waist, the kind of thing that looks innocent but feels like a dare, I forget how to breathe.

She steps inside like she owns the place. Drops her bag on my couch. Kicks off her shoes.

“You okay?” she asks, immediately picking up on the tension in the room.

“Yeah,” I lie.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“So are you.”

Her eyes narrow just slightly, and for a second I think she might actually say something. But she doesn’t. Just walks to the window and looks out like the night sky has something worth saying.

I watch her silhouette in the streetlight. The way the hem of her dress flutters. The line of her neck. She looks delicate. Effortless.

But she isn’t.

She’s armor in silk.

A secret wrapped in sunshine.

And I’d give up breathing just to keep her looking at me the way she does when she’s not thinking.

She finally turns around. “You gonna tell me what’s wrong, or are we doing the dance tonight?”

I sit on the edge of the couch and hold up the paper Milo gave me.

She takes it, reads it slowly. Then looks up, expression unreadable.

“Veronin?”

“Apparently, that’s me.”

“Is that Russian?”

“I think so.”

“Do you speak it?”

“No.”

“Do you remember anything from before foster care?”

“Not much. Just noise.”

She’s quiet for a moment. Then she folds the paper and hands it back.

“Do you believe it?” she asks.

“I don’t know what to believe. But someone does. Someone’s looking for me.”

Her jaw tightens. She paces once, then again, then stops.

“You need to be careful.”

“I am.”

“No, Zach. I mean careful. Whoever’s looking for you, they’re not doing it for fun.”

“I figured.”

She doesn’t meet my eyes.

That’s how I know she knows more than she’s saying. But I don’t press. Not yet. Because I want her to trust me on her own.

And also because I’m scared of what she might say.

She spends the night.

Not in the way that makes things simple. Not just bodies or heat or lust.

She curls into me like she’s been waiting to. Like the world outside doesn’t exist if we don’t let it in. Her hand on my chest. Her head tucked beneath my chin. The kind of closeness that’s more dangerous than anything else.

Because when she breathes against my skin, I let myself believe, for just a second, that maybe I can have this. Her. Us. A life.

But we both know that’s a lie.

I dream of smoke and thunder. Of a boy screaming in a language I don’t understand. Of fire. Of blood. Of a name I’ve never heard being yelled like a curse, Zakhar!

I wake up drenched in sweat.

Alana’s already sitting up beside me, hand on my arm.

“You were dreaming.”

“I don’t even know what it was.”

“You said something. It sounded… foreign.”

“Probably nonsense.”

She doesn’t look convinced. But she doesn’t argue either.

We sit in silence until the sun breaks the horizon. Then she kisses my shoulder and whispers, “If someone’s looking for you, I’ll help you find out who.”

It feels like a promise. And I want to believe it.

But part of me knows, when the truth comes out, it’s going to take more than promises to keep us whole.

Later that morning, I do something stupid.

I go back to the old group home.

It’s barely standing, graffiti on the front door, glass shattered. A woman I don’t recognize opens the gate. She doesn’t ask questions when I say I used to live here. Just shrugs and lets me in like she’s seen ghosts before.

The records room is mostly empty. But I find one drawer still intact. My file. Thin. Tattered. Most of it’s blacked out.

But there’s one note in the margins, scribbled by a caseworker named Franklin in 2009.

“Possible family connection flagged. Veronin—see supplemental doc.”

There’s no supplemental doc.

Just that one word again.

Veronin.

And suddenly I feel it, that small, unmistakable tug.

Like something buried is starting to claw its way out.

I don’t know who I was. But someone remembers.

And I think they’re coming.