I sit and make two lists. Control. No control. I put the boys on the first. I put the boy on both. That is the plan.
I don’t know where to put Mina. She’s an adult with agency and clearly a determined mind of her own. There’s no wrangling a woman who seduces her ex’s father for revenge, then never tells him he has two new sons. She’s used to doing things her own way, and while I respect that, she’s robbed me of three months of my children’s lives.
Though, from her point of view, it was probably a matter of survival. Staying as far as she could from me and Vitaly likely sounded like the smart play to her pregnant mind. I hate to admit it, but she was right to do so. She’s kept them safe through her caution.
But Vitaly has a weird thing about anniversaries, and now, they aren’t safe without my protection.
On the edge of the blotter is a photograph I never framed. Vitaly at nine, arms thin, eyes bright, chin tilted for approval. I slide it into the drawer and close it. I am not throwing him away. I am putting the past where it belongs so the present can stand.
Perturbed is the right word for what I feel about the woman’s history with my son. I did not know. I should have known sooner. Should have thought with more than just my cock that night. But I can’t change the past, and I won’t let it dictate my future.
It’s true of myself and Vitaly. He doesn’t get to call the shots here. He is not now, nor will he ever be, pakhan. Not even over my dead body.
Tomorrow is coming whether I plan for it or not. I prefer the first. The house is quiet. I sit with the lists until the clock tells me it’s late enough to stop pretending I will sleep. Then I turn out the light.
And stare at the dark, forming a plan. I know what I must do.
5
MINA
I wakeat five because the boys stir and then settle again, and once I’m awake I stay that way. The apartment is quiet. The heat ticks. I run a finger along the thin line on my jaw. A morning ritual of sorts, I guess. I shower, dress, and step into the kitchen where my mother is already at the stove warming bottles.
“Morning,” she says without turning.
“Morning.” I check the formula level, rinse, wipe, move in the narrow space we share without bumping her. She hands me Yuri first. He gulps like the world is late. Xander is patient and then not. Their eyes track my face. Three months old, all appetite and sound.
“You’ll be late?” my mother asks.
“Usual time.” I pack my lunch and then unpack it because there won’t be time to eat it. I pack it again anyway. Habit helps when courage feels thin.
I don’t know what Vitaly’s up to, and it’s ruining my sleep. Hers too.
We have a system for mornings, and it gets us through the chaos of it all. On my way out, I kiss the boys’ warm heads and my mother’s cheek. “Text me if you need anything.”
“I always do,” she says. “Be safe.” She looks at my face for a beat. She doesn’t say his name. She doesn’t need to remind me to watch my back.
The stairwell smells like dust and someone’s toast. I keep my keys in my fist, aimed down. People always tell you to put your keys between your fingers like Wolverine claws. But funny enough, it was Vitaly who broke me of the habit. “You do that, and the keys will hurt you more than your attacker.” He positioned my keys in my hand like I was holding a dagger. “That’s better. You have more control that way—always keep them pointed down, and it’s harder for someone to use them against you.”
Never thought I’d be using his advice against him.
At the front door I scan the block through the glass without looking like I’m scanning. No black jacket at the corner. No motorcycle. A delivery truck idles half a block down. A woman pulls a toddler by the hand. The street is just a street. I step out and walk.
I take the earlier train to avoid the crowd I know too well and switch cars at the last minute. I stand with my back to a wall and keep my bag in front. It looks like normal city habits. It’s also what I can control. At my transfer I go up one staircase and down another. I am not running. I am not hiding. I am making it harder to follow me without being seen. Fear sits in my throat. I swallow it and keep moving.
Work is the same beige it was yesterday. I like that. The lobby guard nods. I say his name. I take the elevator with a woman from HR who’s always cheerful before nine and quiet after. She compliments my cardigan. I thank her. I sit at my desk and open my inbox. It fills as if I’m feeding it, little fires I can stamp out without asking permission.
Between tasks I check the glass of the front doors. Vigilance can look like boredom if you do it right. At ten I change the toner in the west copier because no one else will admit they know how. At ten thirty I fix a typo in the header of a motion that would have made us look sloppy.
At eleven I text my mother:All good?
She sends a photo of Xander asleep with one hand flung over his head. Yuri awake and scowling at the camera.
All good,she writes.Eat lunch.
Lunch is my job today. Twelve people in a conference room want sandwiches and one wants soup and one wants to be difficult. I read the list twice. I grab my coat and head for the deli two blocks down because their line moves and their rolls don’t crumble.
The sidewalk is busy. I don’t want to look for him. I tell myself not to. I do anyway. A man in a black jacket crosses at the light. He’s the wrong height. Too many black jackets out here, and knowing Vitaly, he’d be in a different color today to throw me off. I walk fast enough to look like a person who’s late and slow enough to scan the glass of storefronts as I pass.
