Life is like that. Sooner or later, it boils down to “What the hell can you do?”

His brother, Michael, once told him that when he had no hope, he dreamed of sun, wind, and horses. They were a part of his past—in a way, the best part. Every night he had dreamed of them—sun, wind, and horses. When Stefan had no hope, because dying doesn’t leave a person much, he saw the same.

Sun, wind, and horses.

Stefan felt his heart stutter and skip. He wouldn’t have thought that one or two missed beats would hurt that much, but they did. Invisible fingers of agony fastened around that beating hunk of muscle and squeezed once, twice, as his lungs staggered in sync. Then red, as scarlet as a field of poppies, bloomed behind his eyes, and he was on the beach. There were pounding waves, pale sand, and a sky so blue it couldn’t be real. It was a child’s painting, carefully covering every bit of the paper; it was blue and dense enough that you could probably scrape a thick peeling of color away with a thumbnail. He could smell the salt that stung his nose, feel the water that soaked his legs, and the warmth of the horse beneath him, the coarse mane he hung on to as he galloped through the surf. The wind in his face made him feel that he could fly. It was one of those moments no one forgets; the exhilaration, the sensation of wind, water, and sun branded forever in the mind of the fourteen-year-old kid.

He couldn’t see his brother, but he could hear him laughing in the way only a seven-year-old can laugh—with all his being. He was on his own horse behind Stefan, sharing the adventure. It was a great memory, there, then—before the blood. Before the red coated the rock and sand, it was better than great—it was the perfect memory. Time spent with the strippers in his old Mafiya haunts didn’t beat that. Even the first time he fell in love didn’t conquer that. Didn’t come close.